. so yeah, perhaps the aboriginals, the argument for the noble savage is there... point being, they have a narrative, more eloquent than the moneticised outside the frantic fanaticism of Harry Potter, a plagiarism of Merlin... etc. etc., with all the scientific superiority, a narrative in collectivism based upon plagiarism? does it really matter? the people who spurn on the superiority of western culture... let's just say, they love to gamble, but don't understand nature's gambling pattern of weeding out the weak... and... given their opinions? i wouldn't want to share a meal with them... contradictory *******... tell them about the Manchester attacks, and they'll cite Yemen! i find it rather uncomfortable sharing a public toilet with them... to begin with... but eating with them? what a strange anticipation of the most profound profanity!
            
                                 so yeah...
  nice critique...
"philosopher" *** sophist -
namely a rhetorician...

i love the giggles,
don't you love the giggles?

philosophy is something to engage
with, rather than explain...
more a tartar steak than
a medium-done slash of slaughterhouse
debris...

ahem... where's your western narrative?
where is the sociological focus?
the focus point?
the campfire?

  where, is, the, glue?

    can't see it...
western civilization is superior,
i grant you that,
but, where is the self-inflammatory
implosion?
  the self-reflecting critique?

look at your literature!
my good fellow!
  the pop-***** of vampire-clad-
neo-gothica?
you have to be kidding me...
too many facts, imbedded with
seeking counter-doubts (i.e. facts):
compensated with an antithesis
of a narrative principle...

a right, without a wrong...
a fact, without a narrative,
is pointless educational rubric -
no more finding an point
of answer, than regurgitating a bunch
of facts...
      i would be so certain as to joke
about the aboriginal culture...
when the western narration continuum
is plagued,
   by inconsistent narratives...
narratives that would never
want me to allow myself
a focus for congregating...

   no, sorry...
           you sit that **** alone in youir
little group-therapy sessions...
i'm about to do a Pontius Pilate
revision...
   i'm washing my hands away
from the gloat...
i can't stomach it...

      i don't want to stomach it...
i don't even adhere to an I.Q. discussion
as astounding racial differences...
i have already the point breaker:
and why so few black athletes compete
in the swimming events,
while so many are prescribed the
100m / 200m distance?

            what comes naturally...
800m / 1500m races?
white...
          the quasi-marathon running?
evidently Kenyan or Ethiopian...

i hate this, the vest iz v besht...
                       i regurgitate on this
factoid...
               with diarrhoea...

for all the science involved...
what is it, exactly, that constitutes,
the gluing fabric of community?

    i hate to say this,
but seldom facts are a differential aspect
    of exploratory conundrums...
Moby **** type of narratives?
the integral aspects...
      science has overtaken the expression
of life, sanitized it,
   securing an antithesis of
misery and mortality...
                    with: "facts"...
      
i might share the pH scale with someone...
but if i don't share the commonality of
a narrative?
  **** me, third party sources...
why should i share?
we share the same factoid,
why should we even bother consummating
this fact, over lunch?!

no bother!
there is no reason!
      live your life, let me live mine...
but don't you ******* even bother
dictating what i can, or can't do,
on the allowance of having invested
in a private property,
you, *******, english, ****!

  savvy?!

  the vest iz z best-chore...
   sure sure...
      love your literature, wonder
of the ******* world!
          YA ******* and your journalism?
makes Mecca pilgrims blush!
  wonderful!
                
...and for not particular reason...
vampires, werewolves,
zombies, the whole generic
exhausted stereotype -
   applause! applause!
applause!

              what?! health service?
i was lucky to have met up with my socialistic
accessible doctor,
   how many? 2 years to spare from
the last visit...
   zee vest iz z best!

            because why would i have considered
studying chemistry to an edinburgh university
level...
    and not began a post-scriptum of schooling,
beginning work in a supermarket?!

nice narrative, love the advertisement...
keep up the belittling tactic...
   glorifying your ***** wiped clean...
nay bother...
  as the Picts used t say...
                there is an actual masochistic
attache of internalized hate,
that even i can accommodate...

                     i hate gloating,
i hate boasting...
   and i hate the sort of people who
self-identify themselves as philosophers...
rather than sophists...
the sort of people:
who, simply, can't, keep, their, mouths,
shut!

don't criticise cultures,
when your own culture...
   is gearing up to problematic investments
of its own,
most notably, the teenage mental
health crisis...
          please...
                       this is not a time scant
for diminishing the already
queuing problems,
   by resorting to I.Q and race arguments...
the ******* can claim to be
philosophers, and entertain
the centre stage...
   i have a bench...
  in a park, talking to an old east london
geezer about rayleigh bikes...
and the scalpel attitude to
finding a prefix, negation,
                in the word disease...

western civilization has been gripped
with an Sunni Islam virus of
a superiority complex...
             they sure as **** know how
to point the good stuff...
   but slightly less...
                dream-detached when it comes
to the current,
    problems...
                  but hey!
the barbaric peoples are our closest
allies of worthy comparison...
   compare a ******* donkey
to a galloping horse!
  that'll fix it!

- but i thought that western culture was
all for the inbreds,
the down syndromes?
  the last birth mothers?!
   so?
        some cultures are somehow
more clingy to a peoticization of
the past...
    which... says much more...
for what currently grips the western
inconvenience in the pursuit of
a narrative, whether historical,
or fictional.

thankfully my nostalgia concerning the late
20the century, coincides with my youth,
i mean youth, and that i also mean
****** idealism, when women were phantoms
and could never be girlfriends or
widows, or tears shed at the grave,
or nothing needy, nothing clinging,
nothing resembling mussels...
         i have to admit, i got ***** the moment
i detached myself from thinking about god...
the third partisan of the a priori
implant dictated by time & space...
            i didn't only shove my genitals into
her genitals, i shoved my ego into her
concept of god... and i subsequently became
a dimmed version of st. augustine...
              because that part of me didn't exactly
make confetti from her reasoning....
shoom!
          scalped me and dragged about 1000
tumbleweeds in its travels...
             the grand point? i didn't see
   a hairdresser, for the next never ever...
unless they do trim ***** to coincide with
      funny tattoos...
                     i don't know... maybe i was really
ultra-idealistic about women before i lost
my virginity, that after i lost it, after i lost
the foremost grace, i didn't learn the gorilla
impetus to keep one... let alone a harem...
   women really were fun and beautiful and
mysterious when i had them in my head...
      after the fact that i learned too late that they
also took a ****, i couldn't believe it!
        me, adapting to this? this fog-smeared
creature? yes, i can see my nihilism,
                    i''ve been burning that amber light
of a litre of whiskey per night for quiet some time,
drop by Collier Row's Tesco and look at the c.c.t.v.,
but then i put on some creedance clearwater revival
(not cool, aha, used the whole name, right?
cooler me saying c.c.r.? bukowski, lebowski...
same ****, different cover) -
   but i really did experience love... i know... huh ha...
did i recover from it? i'd probably have
recovered from 20 ****** over-doses...
        she got married, obviously...
  because women, don't idealise men...
  unless they meet the criteria of what men are supposed
to own... man idealising woman is a woman per se...
woman idealising man is a man contra per se...
                     after all, a man idealises
thinking about a temp. storage space for his
*******...
              which later turns into offspring...
   any woman could agree to being part of that phlegm
and being content at housing those "lucky" offshoots
in her kangaroo rucksack...
           it's as ugly as European thinking is going
to get, it can't get more scientific than this...
   i really do need a square on a rectangular canvas
to prompt a generous conversation about redifing
the point: we're not going back to the Milan school of
oil on canvas... or Rembrandt...
      it's not happening.
so creedance clearwater revival and graveyard train...
how we have bass guitar, and it's nibbling,
just nibbling... just grooving...
                  more like stalking but keep in mind
nibbling... and the there's no rhythm guitar,
because the guitar is just making accents,
the guitar is just twitching... i can't believe how
un-jazz comprehensive modern music is...
                   rhythm doesn't belong to the guitar,
there shouldn't be a rhythm guitar...
rhythm is all bass and drums...
          and i say that: because i hate metallica and how
i can never hear the bass guitar when i listen to them...
no wonder the original bassist got scribbled off...
   i love bass, don't you love bass?
something has to overpower the strength of drums
in modern music, something has to restrain
drums... needs to set the soothing rhythm,
rhythm guitar can't do that, you need the bass
guitar... bass guitar is, quiet frankly,
the most underrated instrument in modern composition...
techno techno! bongo bongo parties of
               berlusconi... bongo bongo... hatchet plus!
yes... silvio... we have the guillotine around here
too... choppy waters... plenty of sharks...
   enough to take a bite, though.
   and i thought naked lunch was bad...
well, i didn't, i didn't even want to plagiarise the Tristian
Tzara bound to it, reminiscent of cabaret voltaire.
huh?   ah yes... creedence clearwater revival,
and the bass on graveyard train, like water coming
down from a leaking tap...
  tum dum doom ta dollop... and it sounds nothing
like that... but something to allow the guitar what
it does best, sure, it joins in the rhythm section at
the beginning of the track... but then the guitar
sets up a momentum of creating accents,
  no rhythm = no solo... accents...
   little licks of being there... very ******* jazzy...
my my, so jazzy... and that's the safe ground to have
in music, retaining the jazz...
             otherwise you get into territory akin to
classical music's anithesis... the opposite of classical
music is... earthquakes... techno techno... drum drum...
drum drum... drum, drum... drum drum drum...
classical music was all about breathing...
  césar franck's les éolides (the breezes) -
and the antithesis? techno techno... muffed up techno:
ambient music... refrigerator sounds...
muffer up drums...
               don't get me wrong, i do listen to
e.g. man with no name...
         but it's rare to hear the jazzy side of things...
  it's just such a waste to see the bass guitar
not used as it should be, i.e. being over-powered
by drums... and using so much rhythm with
a guitar... having the rhythm and the solo...
  like squeezing a pair of testicles of a celibate monk...
god, that hush hush: tone down, tone, tone down,
tone, down... down... down...
             pst... kaput....
                                      i really did start talking
about something else, didn't i?
                this is new... digression as a column of
rhetorical perfection... fair enough having the rhetorical
skills, talking persuasively (well, just lying)
    about the same topic... but find me the rhetorician
than utilises digression, and forgets his talking
because he's changing subjects without really
    categorising them as being different....
    it's a trance state akin to eastern meditative practices...
digression as the most pleasing form of rhetoric,
teachers' oratory technique... not politicians' oratory...
   i never understood why digression was
not the foremost element of rhetoric...
                    political rhetoric is always about
ensuring people remember something,
they never do...
                        politicians drill in the points...
   and for some reason, they never talk to rhetorical
perfection, i.e. being able to digress...
                the most persuasive rhetoric is the rhetoric
with digression at its core...
                       or at least that's how i learned
english from a scotsman...
                                just blah blah blah blah
and at some point, there always will come an aha!
which is the next best thing to an eureka.

i. the beer:

of all the drugs available for legal consumption,
well illegal too,
   i love how alcohol is the only
with a credible, even a romantic story,
take today, as an example,
  i took a gamble (the english really know
how to craft "flat" beers - namely ales...
in terms of lager? ******* can't beat
the central europeans - carling...
    that's all they can summon) -
but this one i came across today was a gem,
crisp and i am a sucker for crisp,
but not enough body of a typical ale,
body? flavour...
                  **** me, having a chemistry
degree i should be brewing...
     ah, but i do have enough vine
      for about 12 bottles every year,
but the dream? well, with music shops
doing the dodo march... i guess the ever
present ambition is to brew beer
(and yes, ***** is brought about by
the fermentation of potatoes);
   but i just love how every bottle has a story,
take this one for example:

               sharp's (rock, cornwall)
  (and yes, cornwall is bue -
            quiet unlike the rest of england,
  they even pretend to be
   "basque" separatists -
  goergie goergie - poachy poachy -
            king john the **** -
raise the black flag with a white cross
to invert the teutonic banner of
             black cross upon a white flag!)

aye ****, d'er beer:

           *doom bar
(est. 1994 - exceptional amber ale)

but like i said: not much body in it -
if a budweiser is the "king" of lager -
then this is certainly a "king" of ale.

the story? verbatim:

    'at the mouth of the camel estuary in rock,
cornwall, lies the trecherous doom bar
sandbank, the inspiration for this
exceptional amber ale.
                the sandbank is revered as a
formidable nautical challenge that
should be approached with respect and
nagivated with skill.'

well **** me, i'm off my rockers, i get a beer
and* a story... bargain,
                            at un' poond und aye-tee!

ii. lactose intolerance / constipation /
             a 4th of the "horsemen of the apocalyspse":

of the four "supposed" horsemen of the apocalypse?
i greatly admire but one:
                                          daniel dennett...
and for what, if not the virtue of being
humbled, awe-stricken, and not much of
a sophist -
                    i.e. a rhetorician.
the other three?
                to me, just a trio of pompous
*****... but daniel dennett?
now that's the bearded fellow i can admire...
he's the humpty-dumpty of the lot,
  he's like the epitome of the socratic method,
translated from ancient times
   into modernity - i.e. not the dialectician:
but the mediator.
      
   and when he mentions lactose intolerance
in humanity beyond the years of man's
"instinct"... i approach a well-known woman
to me (after all, i shared her body as
a foetal "parasite") -
  and she's tried all the could to alleviate
her constipation...
            i walk down the stairs with a bright
idea:
             how about you start drinking
raw milk?
                      maybe raw milk would ease
the constipation?
                           she replies:
not even if i had raw milk with a cherry...
worth a try, i say,
given that i've never seen you drink raw
milk...
        me? i still drink the raw fluid ivory -
better drinking that,
       that shooting rhinos for sport...
for some reason i can't get enough of it...
  cheese beckons?! not really...
but give me a pint of milk, and i'll drink it
in one worthwhile summary:
   concluding in an empty pint glass.
maybe milk will ease the constipation?
   who knows, worth a try.

but of the four "supposed" horsemen,
   i have respect for but one...
      yes yes, hitchens sycophants out there
than have their carnival of mumbles
and ooh and ah's... and a-ha's...
          yes, eloquent to the highest degree,
but a pompous ****** the name came to be;
only on the death bed, was he ever
earnest to curb his sophistry -
       and as said:
              nearing the abode of death,
              man stands undressed,
              in mind and body,
              the unlikely foetal kindred -
              naked, in the fluid of change -
              readied for the onslaught
              of the forever eternal flux.

iii. the three animals (laika, albert jr.,
&, why of course: dolly):

funny, isn't it...
           if there was a soviet darwin,
the soviets would have sent an ape into space...
but instead they sent a dog...
  
seems hard to find people with ape pets,
domesticated in the allign of a zoo -
    probably just as hard to keep a domesticated
money, as it is to keep a pigeon take
to a return roost...
hence the romanticism of space exploration
residing with the soviets, over the americans...
the world will forever remember
  a laika than an albert jr. (originally albert II,
but lets not allow aristocracy into the domain
of the lesser mammal) -
  and laika will always burn an imprint
into the mind, a dog always overcomes
the monkey in the here & now
                                 (dasein evolution):
but that's space taken care of...
what about time?
         none other than "alice", i.e.
     dolly the clone sheep... cloning
explores time... and dolly was the first
explorer of time, or the perpetuation of said
artefact...
                   do i sense a "humane" obstruct
being imposed?
         the frankenstein phobia?
               oh i think i'm right on the money...
with so much knowledge and so much
power at our hands, the collective man seems
only orientated around the carnal dynamic
of perpetuating itself around a dynamic
of pains and ills...
                       never the broad shoulder
giant looking toward the western continents
from the shores of portugal...
                by now we realise we're not
standing on the shoulders of currently-temporal    
giants... but on the shoulders of:
midgets!      
               as i a child i conjured up the idea
of the other A.I. -
nothing technological...
                  i actually thought of
insemination - and if auschwitz would still be
open, i might have joined ol' joseph in
the experiment,
but like a true scientists: beginning with animals,
i.e. impregnating a dog with human *****...
or a monkey with human *****...
obviously jo mengele would have
preferred the reverse, i.e. impregnating
a woman with the ***** of the already stated
examples...
                       well... in the dark aeons of
*******... hasn't anyone noticed the crude
representation of a white woman,
******* the phallus of a horse?
     ah... you weren't internet savvy in the early
00s... what with rotten.com.

working "backwards" from something already
started in: collateral and the chicken scratching exercise...

how can you not have a hard-on
for mel gibson's beard...
in... the professor and the madman -
detailing the... etymological events
surrounding something more dear to me...
than the pslams of king david
or the: wisdoms of king solomon...
the wisdom: thus derived...
after a man becomes: ostensibly...
bored with a harem...
that would become the blueprint
of envy for future men of the world...

alexander the great...
muhammad...
           it's not a bible... it's a...
dic-tio-nary... stop the press...
pluck all the feathers from all the magpies
in the land... tell Xerxes to stop
whistling at the sea and...
can we just stop with the b.d.s.m.
of the waves?

        head: rotondo! spin ****** spin!
anything in the "pejorative"...
god... this moloch of grammar of a deity...
we need to ensure there's a scrutiny
of each and every, yes: every word...
we need to sieve them through
the categories!

i put to mind:
     it's a comparison of catchphrases...
the war hogs cite it as:
collateral damage...
the civilian will rummage and pluck out:
the... "rhetorical question"...
can... you... put... rhetoric: to a question?
can a rhetorical question:
actually exist... like a unicorn can?
oh wait... kangaroo yes...
a platypus... oh a double yes...

can you... can you... "rhetorical question"?
what the hell is a rhetorical question:
if not, something akin to a fashion statement...
of the calibre: a short-black-'un...
a coco chanel mini-skirt...

what is... a rhetorical question?
a question is, i hope...
something that manages to endorse
the dialectic...
and anyone who engages with a dialectic
will / or should know:
there's no rhetorical question...
when being asked:
one doesn't... "somehow"...
find a magic plot of a forest with smurfs...
and goes off on a tangent speaking...
persuasively...
a rhetoric question isn't a question
at all...

        collateral damage among the war hogs
is a rhetorical question among the civilians...

the story of professor james murray
and dr. william minor...
and to think... the alienists (psychiatrists)
at the time thought that...
enforced regurgitation...
could animate the body to conjure up
an already exhausted soul...
what ancient romans did for masochistic pleasure:
bulimia in the rudiment of:
a fork of fingers agitating the throat
and subsequently the oesophagus
to: bring back... what was already in fractions...

some call it soul, some call it x... y...
that... indispensable will: for animation...
to perform the 80 year old (in total) magic trick
of being: immune...
to the ills and forgivings of others...
a standard praise of solipsism...
as a thought-experiment... nothing more...
from which one can...
come and go as freely as one can vote
in a democracy...

come when summoned... leave when...
not made into any greater necessity other than:
to make fair of the count...

truly: a hard-on for mel gibson's beard...
some can claim ***** envy...
i have beard envy...
like to-hat envy when someone is 5'11"
and i'm still the same old 6'2"...

rhetorical question... i always found questions
to be... of a... dialectical nature...
i can hardly think of a rhetorical question
or rhetorical answer...
a rhetorical question implies:
the questioner has more to say...
than the person intended to answer...
i can hardly anyone burn through oration
when being posed a question...
a question: per se... is not something one
can be certain about: esp. when giving a reply...

a rhetorical question is a k.f.c. mouse urban
myth... a bit like collateral damage:
did we destroy a bullet making factory?
no... but we killed some civilians...
or some sort of entreating variation of worshipping
the drugging and bullet dodging machinery
of: cold the bullet bit...

how can you pose a rhetorical question?
is someone about to make a rhetorical answer?
robots would behave within rhetorical confines
of being asked an absolute:
error message - replying with an absolute yes / no...

a rhetorical question would beg
for a ore rotundo: with a voice filled with assurance...
the question is imposed...
with a curiosity... at best: with doubt...
uncertainty... at worst: with a negation:
waiting for the wrong answer...
but no dialectic is ever to be established
working from a rhetorical question...
a socrates would be:
the dialectical surgeon...
the affair of the question doesn't go beyond...
whoever is questioning:

oh!           oh!
a rhetorical question is... not for someone
to address the question...
but a pursuit of the questioner to continue asking
question...
a rhetorical question is... to further the lineage
of questions... to be therefore "rhetorical"
is to inquire more... rather than reply with
a rhetorical certainty...
a rhetorical question isn't a question...
it's a cascade of questions...

******* and the myth of the gateway...
after **** i did the next best thing...
i rediscovered bourbon as ms. amber...
that once you watch just a little bit of it...
you will turn toward finding out more graphic
content...
so... me looking out for the most *******
music: combichrist... :wumpscut,
vomito *****...
                  *****... graphic... *******?
or... gloryhole ***** *******...
               or pregnant women: so *****...
       or japanese gravure models...
"problem" with japanese models...
              *** bots? aren't they here already...
with these porcelain mannequins?
touch a hand it breaks or fizzles into...
ash...
  as happens when you've been at "it"...
puritanical victorian von krafft-ebbing...
i sometimes know what the ******* is for...
i hardly think it necessary to listen to what's
"moral" from circumcised... gentile...
north-h'americans...
                    jerking off since aged 8...
brain rot started way back... in 1994...
which is before the internet...
   gateway... my ***...
         japanese gravure and Agnolo Bronzino...

who needs "more"... when you have a mel gibson
beard-envy!

the chair can remain a chair...
but there's a termite colony wriggling in it...
i don't need to see it...
i just need to hear it...
combichrist: like to thank my buddies,
    today i woke to the rain of blood...
                   all pain is gone...
       cheap thrill seeing heaven:
better tamed - attempting to listen to the litanies
escaping hell...
a written word in hell is like...
     because the hands are being crushed
in monkey-wrenches and there's Spinoza
cackling...

   who needs more ******* and ride-me-timmy
the horses' laugh when music can
compensate... and otherwise find the better
kind of: the feeding outlet...

a rhetorical question: is that for the answer to
be tinged with rhetorical gravitas?
no... then every question socrates every posed
what a rhetorical question:
and the concern for dialectics is a dummy...
which is probably true: reading what sort
of answers those put under the scrutiny give:
is response...

i must be wrong: a rhetorical question:
is not simply a question...
a rhetorical question could perhaps give
the person answering a spark of rhetoric...
a rhetorical question should:
by default... provide you with a rhetorical
answer... but all it does is...
further a second question...
and a third... a fourth...
    so more for the "famous" dialectic...
when all that seems to happen...
one only becomes a rhetorician: via question...
rather than merely: talking...

the rhetorical question is therefore
the basis of "dialectics": which is no basis for
dialectics per se...
it's the persuaded question-prone antagonist:
who is hardly the narrator...
and the answer is always the same:
shut up! i'm talking over you...
i'll just disguise this whole affair in a question
and minor answer cited: a perfectly well
equipped yes: or no... will suffice:
or a nod of approval worded...
                  socrates the bane of sophists
and rhetoricians...
a subtle project... you are not interrupted...
when to stress an invocation
of fake curiosity: by asking a question...
the sort of question...
a rhetorical question... that will not usurp
your original: intent monologue of sophistry...

an echo is all the rave when it comes
to a rhetorical question...
a rhetorical question feeds of: yes / no answers...
and there i was thinking that a rhetorical
question implies:
whoever answers... will break into
a rhetorical answer... verbatim the quran
akin to a hafiz! nope...
a rhetorical question is a punctuation mark:
one hopes... of what a rhetorician would usually do...
when having a voice in the congregation
of docile elders...

socrates: the elder... found an audience
among the athenian young... because?
        he stressed that rhetoric had to have overtones
of questioning: without really questioning...
what sort of "dialectic" is there to be had:
what: dialogue...
when... the dialogue leaves one side with
a narrator and protagonist semblance?
and the characters: ergo? are nothing but nail-heads
for the hammer to plough through?!

oddly enough... Plato ****** off Socrates so
hard... that Socrates became...
the first non-hasidi...
to be circumcised... by pursed lips...
yep... Plato ****** off Socrates' *******:
right off... thinking the phallus...
was in the no-man's land of comparsion
to a chicken drum-stick!
antagonism: of how favourable the "dialogues"
are cited...
i've had a similar experience...
i really don't know what this... "e-prostitution"
is about...
before the internet... i am probably one of
the last few who blushed when buying a magazine
at the newsagent with all them *******...
and: curated ***** hairs:
less of a chin and more...
the pelvic "hubris" / canvas...

                 brothel: tick...
strip-club: tick...
              what's given everyone a hot-cross bun
shivers...
          "never paid"... but otherwise paid:
for the insinuation...
and the insinuation was: a date...
look at it as... no ******* dysfunction...
and no money for a date...
straight back into the salt mines
and trench digging... no time for honey:
oh boobie and frankly my dear:
i don't drown herrings...

       a rhetorical question is also a compound-misnomer...
yep... the idea of a rhetorical-question
is a compound-misnomer:

take me on a chain to the goblet...
pay the extra to rid the matter:
seven tongues instead of one...
gorging on the inquiry of Gomorrah...
to better couplet to the banquet of *****!
that ***** treat us Gomorrah civically dutied:
as worse than rats and shadows...
and the plebs just entertain...
       what would ever come from
the mouth of ***** as:
       prized bulls of drag-queen story-hour...
shame those without foreskins...
comparison...
a o.k. to be gay...
                what's date-night?
is that... something -esque having coupled
a mahjong with a niqab?!
why don't all the muslim women take
the best route... join the surgeon mask-equipped
crowds... and no... simple forget the hijab...
donning the full niqab?!
why?!

who needs seeking more depraved *****
beside... Bronzino and japanese gravure models...
and all that elasticity of:
electricity passing through an iron maiden
via... combichrist: sent to destroy...
hardly "destroy": cultivate...
recycle... call the parasites into hubris *******
haitus...

also "in response" to: the kinks and the...
"celibate" priesthood...
        because: you know, the kinks and all that:
******* music and fine detaiks of:
when the butcher will be cited...
looking at a slab of meat...
and calling a harem of pigs...
that floral... pinky tidbit "in the middle":
avert your eyes:
how god's finger touched adam's...
and via what...

it doesn't come more ******* than...
drinking lukewarm whiskey...
that i can stand...
but if anyone's drinking ***** not suberged
into gomme syrop consistency...
there's: should we say...
a... "spot of bother"...

              i wouldn't mind...
that bourbon as a quiet distinct perfume
associated with brothels...
and it's just that...
          but... e-prostitution: for the "tease"?
the wrath of adam:
sort of ******* in between:
when the ****** brigade comes along
and stops at thge madonna-***** complex?
i'm scratching my head:
either i'm thinking of a ? or my i.q.
one internet sight should be in existance...
dedicated... to the unabashed puritanism
of dogs licking their genitals...
because: a priori: who would have "known"...

and also to chronicle the sights and wonders
of... KMFDM stand-out tracks...
but a sight levereging "*****" of...
dogs teasing testicles with "prudence"
of a... the fastest waggle in all of: "arizona"...
chant!
chant! F.S.A. - which makes it more and less:
"united"
   the federal states of h'america...
     number 1 subscriber...
albert razin...
    is this... is this... what "integration" looks like?
like hell i'll give up what's
festering knee-deep at the rim...
i'll talk english just fine with
the natives... but when the natives:
tell me that:
true integration is a complete whitewash
of your "former" identity: you
integrate by "forgetting" your mother tongue...
i have... this juggernaut... craze-fit in
my eyes...
   then, why, don't, you, send, me,
a, postcard, from france: IN FWENCH!
this global mantra of: english solves everything...
not unless you're of a Dutch or
Scandinavian origin...
you have already learned this...
"lingua franca": this l'inglese...
lucky for the WELSH! who are you...
you anglo-saxon globalist mongrel?!
where is your anglo- counterfeit bypasser...
UND... wohin ist ihr Sachsen?
and where is your saxony: saxon?
have i an axe to better grind?
           jude-nomade-mischling!
you're no better than your claim!
ficken-jude-sächsisch-anglo-anlage-gehenvolk...
all this: for the insomnia parade?!
24 / 7 news reels?!
         alles diese... für was?!

if they only spoke two languages...
perhaps... less retards spreading the "crown":
licking ice-cream tubs...
open / the end... closed: also the end...
verzögernzüchtung...
          ******-breeding...
        ­                i have to admit... it sounds as crisp as:
gin
                                   &                        tonic...
and lapses into epilepsy...
because the "hierarchy" says: such words...
such words: no no: with a BIG no-no
when used...

                here too, i... will ****...
on every prematurely demented kin of moi...
because... the hierarchy of termites and of ants...
dictates so... while the congregation of:
man and ape... isn't sure... what animal is worth
borrowing a metaphor from!
to... "progress"...
like little **** and please staging all that
copernican ******* ever did...
the surgical masks...
shot dead in the Philippines
for not wearing one... "stigma" and the niqab...
at least the cherries on these cream-pies...
could at least turn proper ortho-and-doxing...
with a niqab...
pwetty pwease...  

all the airs and graces...
some nut would have made it this far...
Kierkegaard as proof...
"you don't think before you speak":
i rather, i much rather entertain
the freedom to think... and extend this freedom
into writing...
before i have to eat my own *****
when having to place editorial pressures
on having made video content...
i much prefer the ignoble citation:
and the devil has had these hands busy-bodied...
and all the blessings to the devil for that...
because...
is there such a concept as:
an idle tongue?

               i don't know:
i would like to, though...
live a month's worth of living...
on a salary of a... h'american...
             preacher...
under communism:
no brain-drain...
not best of the best will ever rise...
but at the same time...
so too will not the mediocre...
i thought it could be cited at:
the meek shall inherit the earth...
   talk about a disparity between
the meek and the mediocre...

if only i was the "correct" pronoun
to want: but i do...
have the capacity and enough excuses...
to start donning...
corsets and... high-heel shoes...
then again: if i joined the army...
nothing stand-out...
not uniforms to stand out within
a caste system... uniforms for
the napoleonic era... and that noting me as...
quick-off-the-mark...
suregon of the needle... and quiffs...
until the wehrmacht period...

  ha! the poles on horseback: "once upon a time"
looked bewildering...
the charge of the Krojanty...
well... horses do not seem that bad...
the poles on horses...
when back west...
you had the Dutch... on bicycles...
oh sure... the horse was somehow the "joke"...
but the bicycle was...
   like the pope appeasing the fuhrer...
and "they" would wonder:
        who's who....
the bicycle is gone...
who's who on the left-over peddlestool?!
postman pat proof:
  i think i oops... forgot to detail
the whole idea and economy with...
licking something... beside...
   that quick-and-made-essential:
              amnesia rubric count... which was?

yep... the poles on horseback look
and will forever look more ridiculous...
than... the dutch defence...
on... ha ha! bicycles!

read my proof: am i... "integrated"
is my: english not a word salad:
the scrutiny will come from someone sobering
up from an irish heritage...
is there a niqab or a bindi or a turban on me?
is my language still a word salad?
am i, integrated... "enough"...
not enough i dare say...

       well... about time these natives
learn some postcard and tourisms' worth
of second lingo... italian would be just fine...
since... they are still... hung up on being
so pround of being the afghanistan of the roman
empire...
          and... where is afghanistan when is comes
to... the house of saud and arabia?
i'd grovel... for that kind of goat herders...
and... pashtun poetics!
   queen of the floral: no **** mind to spare...
and if only this wasn't...
rummaging in essex...
more for the cause! new york!
n'aaaaaah...
                
                        i speak for the devil i speak
in about 12... with variations of invocation...
but this is not god speaking...
i am... not a monolingual pre-nomad arab taste...
sitting on a coal-**** turning liquid into
oil: "all of a sudden"...

Hic. On the grey sand beside the shallow stream
Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still
A lamp burns on beside the open book
That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon,
And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace,
Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion,
Magical shapes.
Ille. By the help of an image
I call to my own opposite, summon all
That I have handled least, least looked upon.
Hic. And I would find myself and not an image.
Ille. That is our modern hope, and by its light
We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind
And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;
Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush,
We are but critics, or but half create,
Timid, entangled, empty and abashed,
Lacking the countenance of our friends.
Hic. And yet
The chief imagination of Christendom,
Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself
That he has made that hollow face of his
More plain to the mind's eye than any face
But that of Christ.
Ille. And did he find himself
Or was the hunger that had made it hollow
A hunger for the apple on the bough
Most out of reach? and is that spectral image
The man that Lapo and that ***** knew?
I think he fashioned from his opposite
An image that might have been a stony face
Staring upon a Bedouin's horse-hair roof
From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned
Among the coarse grass and the camel-dung.
He set his chisel to the hardest stone.
Being mocked by ***** for his lecherous life,
Derided and deriding, driven out
To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread,
He found the unpersuadable justice, he found
The most exalted lady loved by a man.
Hic. Yet surely there are men who have made their art
Out of no tragic war, lovers of life,
Impulsive men that look for happiness
And sing when t"hey have found it.
Ille. No, not sing,
For those that love the world serve it in action,
Grow rich, popular and full of influence,
And should they paint or write, still it is action:
The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours,
The sentimentalist himself; while art
Is but a vision of reality.
What portion in the world can the artist have
Who has awakened from the common dream
But dissipation and despair?
Hic. And yet
No one denies to Keats love of the world;
Remember his deliberate happiness.
Ille. His art is happy, but who knows his mind?
I see a schoolboy when I think of him,
With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,
For certainly he sank into his grave
His senses and his heart unsatisfied,
And made -- being poor, ailing and ignorant,
Shut out from all the luxury of the world,
The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper --
Luxuriant song.
Hic. Why should you leave the lamp
Burning alone beside an open book,
And trace these characters upon the sands?
A style is found by sedentary toil
And by the imitation of great masters.
Zlle. Because I seek an image, n-ot a book.
Those men that in their writings are most wise,
Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.
I call to the mysterious one who yet
Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream
And look most like me, being indeed my double,
And prove of all imaginable things
The most unlike, being my anti-self,
And, standing by these characters, disclose
All that I seek; and whisper it as though
He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud
Their momentary cries before it is dawn,
Would carry it away to blasphemous men.

i might be cruel at times, but one thing is for sure: truth always is, esp. when drinking.

i find the concept of the "rhetorical" question slightly
bewildering,
  it's simple enough -
whenever a "rhetorical" question is asked
you rarely hear a counter -
    the person asking the "rhetorical" question
in all instances continues the "conversation" -
by a rhetorical question i'm sure the implication
states (as asked): that i invite you into
the discussion - and, from what i've heard or seen,
that's rarely the case!
    why ask a rhetorical question when only
the rhetorician asking the question is the only
person answering it?
  the smug punctuation mark and cliche that
a "rhetorical" question has become is just that,
a semicolon in a monologue...  
   how about asking a solipsistic question?
you know, pierce the membrane, get someone
out of their head, out of the pronoun
hemisphere - and into: hey, john, what's your
take on it?
to ask a persuading question to later add
that it is a "persuading" question, does not
really invoke a persuasive counter answer -
this entire "rhetorical" question is a pompous
double-under-cut against dialectical fluidity -
****'s sake, people had to found debating societies
to speak in *godot's terms,
  and as ever, a man in his 30s and a man in
his 70s, and a park bench,
is all it takes to be civil...
    obviously the 30s man asking permission
of the 70s man if he can continue drinking
his beer and smoking a cigarette.
rhetorical my ***...
   just say it plainly: it's not a question,
it's a self-empowering answer -
                to continue the monologue -
there is no such thing as a "rhetorical" question,
simply because once the "question" is asked,
it's swept under the carpet -
because whenever a rhetorical "question"
is asked, it's embedded in a quick-answer dynamic
of the person making such a bogus request...
no one has ever answered a "rhetorical" question,
simply because the only person who can
answer such a question, is the rhetorician himself...
codswallop... that's what it is...
     it's also called the barometer tactic of
checking if you're insane, when you talk to yourself
when you're alone...
                              hazelnuts 'n' all...
by the way... you want to stage a horror movie
scene? have a drink, no, have lots of drinks,
drink the whole **** bottle of wine...
but! but...
                     have a mirror in front of you -
nothing shows as much truth as a drunk
narcissus -
               then again, if it was a puddle of *****,
do you think he would have fallen in love
with his visage?
  like any mug of a man after five pints and
six shots later: she was a 4 when i began,
but now? she's a tenner, an alsatian stunner!
oh right, they always say: it's not a rhetorical
question... so?
   it's not really a question at all,
                                                            ­ is it?
it's a self-serving answer...
    and that always seemed to bother me,
   why ask a question you already know
   the answer to? oh, right: to gain rhetorical
momentum, and double-up on hushing
the oppositional argument.

we have been deceived.
corralled like tepid sheep,
fattened beef
waiting beyond
the doors of the slaughterhouse.

as pigs lick their lips,
a daemon’s death dirge drifts
listless across the
Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy
corroding rationality—
this executive edict
barring refugees.

caught without a compass,
a flotilla of ships weathering
the elements.
for forty days
and forty nights,
we’ve been lead
two-by-two
by elephants
and donkeys.

demagogues commandeered
the lighthouse, directing
our ark across
scattered rocks.
an armada
of shattered splinters,
remnants of water-logged vessels
we’d hoped to sail to utopia.

caught in the webs
we wove, droves
of drones spewing
bombs across Aleppo.

as spittle collects
on spluttering orange lips,
will we
pause
for but a moment?

collect
our thoughts.
reflect.
history is a shattered
mirror and we’ve pricked
our fingers trying
to piece the image
back together.

there’s a hunger
for blood
refracting in our eyes.
a misanthropy
that smarts and stings.

a recalcitrant population
coerced by a television
rhetorician’s clever
devices, devised
to separate and segregate
during this crisis
caused by our missiles.

there is no moral arc
to the universe. hope,
Hedges wrote, is mania
if it remains vapid
and refuses to address
the depravity of our
physical reality.

we’ve already lost.
just ask the children
barely clinging to life,
covered in the debris
of their former homes.

all that’s left for us
is to bash the fascists.
smash every illusory border
in our heads and hearts.
burn down the walls
they try to build
around us.

overturn the tables
of the oligarchs,
stuff Molotov cocktails
down their bloated throats.
open revolt is our only hope.
we’ll build a sanctuary
in this City Beautiful.

The root of all evil, set to victimize the people
Keep us separate but equal, justification is lethal
But the system isn’t see through, it’s affecting you and me too
And now we  must redo everything that made us feeble.

Now we must all give in to this suppressive prison
This world in which we live in has been filled with premonition
Oppose our own volition, our morals and our cognition
Listen to the vision of new accepted fiscal rhetorician

You claim to be a Christian with no moral intuition
But I don’t envision a Christian to think with his commission
But I may be incorrect and I may need to reflect
Nevertheless, it’s a greedy world what can you expect?

skoro tak, to powiem: sometimes i wish to unlearn the english tongue, it's not a case of questioning reality, it's a case of questioning the placebo of what would otherwise encapsulate you, my bilingual nature states i've learnt the language well enough to integrate and bypass assimilation, if only i could assimilate somewhere, but i've become a jew in my attempts; thankfully i'm not ready to start a family and a perpetuated question that seeks trans-generational answers from a kaleidoscope; i've learnt the nomadic way among civilisations rather than being nomadic among natural frontiers, which was already inherent in me, but civilisations came after the frontiers of seas and mountains... i've learnt to integrate but never assimilate, which is why i am doubtful to have found assimilation in only one place, whether god-given or whatever that might suggest... as a nomad i am not the one to build pyramids or temples, the constantly homeless ontological structuring of my being - as god constantly digressing from point of concern - i've tasted the nomadic, although the nomadic in an enclosure that's also israel; so crude the talents to come.

why are we, who have no inheritance
in the colonial past
to inherit the squabbles of former
colonial master and the colonised subjects?
who will speak of the smooth
transitions of the failed Soviet empire
into a bloodless Gorbachev lineage of
break-away states, who needed no nanny?
why are we, who recently learned the english
tongue exposed to these squabbles,
why are we in no-man's land camped
as if a Robinson Crusoe - indeed no man
is an island, and doubly indeed no nation
is a continent - why are we caught up
in the exchanges of the two firing squads -
the pawns in addition to the reliquary crowns
of queens in kindred to the Octobers upon Octobers
further east -
                       a queen a pauper among
the sainthood clergy of capitalism? what a profanity!
who cares for a pauper with idolised insignia -
who? the elocutionist? the rhapsodic rhetorician?
who then? a minded gap wide as a yawn
coupled to a warning that warned of the first step -
why am i cursed with this tongue learned,
why am i cursed with this tongue learned
and as my highest form of expression,
and why no Slavic first? i'm abhorrent with these days,
toward them doubly abhorred -
sure the escalators and other innovations -
tease and please the civilised world -
but learning this tongue is a burden on my soul,
while i see my fellow genetically composed twins
stand tall on construction sites as if Viking ships -
that i became a placebo impasse of originating
in these islands of lore chronologically asserting
a tie with Arthur and Lancelot -
but not me - *ultimatum extraneus,
i should not have allowed the foetus of the english
tongue to become incubated in me for a child to speak -
so eloquently some might add -
i sometimes wish i had no knowledge of either this
tongue, or my mother's, and knew a celestial
tongue where certain phonetics emerged once the
symbols were peered at long enough, as in runes
the V a shortening of woo - and left there,
to no care for applauding a successful institutionalisation
of the teenager for the time being,
before all became a Jenga pyramid game.

Today I'd like you to raise your glass
For I've someone I'd like to toast.

Her hair curls like a corkscrew
And I've always been envious.
Exotic beauty shapes her eyes
And ears and lips and nose,
And I always wished I looked like her.
It isn't merely her looks I covet,
For she has a brain with intellect
That rivals the best rhetorician
From Plato to Hobbes to Sartre.
Pick any topic and she'll begin to debate
With practiced ease
Until the other's hand is thrown up
In plain defeat.
But it isn't just her forensic skills
That I wish to possess.
There is yet more to this curl topped girl.
Her heart is bigger than the world.
She loves with compassion
And sympathy
Like I've never witnessed before.
This is what I envy and covet the most,
For where her heart of gold lies,
Mirrored in me is just stone.

She may be younger in years
But she's always been a hero of mine.
And I hope I will continue to be in awe
As she shows the world
Who we all can strive to become.

To my sister.
Sláinte

the ontological zenith, i.e. i'm thinking about thought... and by an ontological zenith i mean nonsense, since thought per se, is a non sensual experience, given that it's an experience of being conscious, or the cartesian sum per se.

                               the supposed "trinity"
    the 99 names of allah,
                                         and the 72
           of the hebrew god...
99 - 72?
                                                   27,
     and only given a bias toward a skeletal
            "image" - sound a bit like playing
   the earliest game, namely (ping) *pong.

but i find something troubling,
how some accumulate
   words
   as objects, as some
accumulate objects as
         "etymological" roots
of wanting riches they can
               exfoliate in,
peacock around in palaces
of gold...
     but i'm no rhetorician
in the sense, that i might
peacock with my knowledge
of a fair number of words...
  which is why i sometimes
mumble,
        when speaking,
     and have no desire
to become erudite on a stage...

laziness?
         nope,
just a way to avoid
                                  a headache.

and it's always a return
                   to the cartesian "equation",
i have no idea as to why
there's this regression,
            
   beside the point, which i'll make
anyway, once i point out:

   nietzsche - 'a polite society doesn't
permit dialectical dialogue'...
          well well...
       aren't we living in a polite society...
last time i checked,
    people used the fist more
             than the tongue to convene...
yes, the citation is not verbatim...

       well, if no one is going to engage in
dialectics, so much for talking
about reason the holy grail of objectivity
as synonym-zenith of western culture's
   individualism quest...
         the ****? i must be missing something...

those shouting leftist sociopaths
    and those pompous right-wing
            blah-blah-bragging antoinettes?
   well, one side has to have proton (+)
qualities, and the other side has to have
  electron (-) properties...
               but there's the neutron side also,
thinking:

ah yes! the point!
             for a long time philosophers treated
thought as a subject,
      rather than an object...
    meanwhile psychologists came up with
thought being an object rather
than a subject, and out came
    the object ego, which turned schizoid
and became the trinity of subjects
   known in pop as ego, superego and id;

that's why psychology treats thinking
(thought) as an object...
    rather than the subject,
since counter-philosophy, psychology
stresses the second portion of
the cartesian equation:
i am subjected to the elements,
   to the state, to the crown,
          why would i desire to be also
subjected to thought?
   better not think, and have rants,
that "holy" right of free speech.

these days thinking and silence is
disavowed, abandoned, an orphan...
  how does that sound in legal courts?
   homicide with diminished responsibility?
  that's not a technical question,
  it's quasi-technical, but there is
homocide verdicts, and there are
  verdicts which
  incorporate diminished responsibility,
i.e.: the insanity plea.

i blame philosophers for distancing
            themselves from jurisprudence.

i still think that by treating
     cogito as an object,
  rather than a subject matter, allows me
to liberate myself from the psychology
  of the ego being a subject matter...
which would explain,
  if cogito (thought) is an object,
   i can't perform such science-fiction
allowances as
            telepathy or telekinesis,
which also implies the realism
    attaining self-fulfilment
   and independence...
          
   otherwise known as greed / selfishness -

but that can only arise when
   thought becomes an object,
   an object that cannot be penetrated,
for one, as psychology exposed / gave a new
tier of "reasoning" crafted:
  that the ego per se,
      became a subject, that split in a freudian
concotion to three parts...
     for one, the christian trinity is one
thing, but now that we have a second trinity...
   imagine thought as an object,
   i.e. a lack of lucidity,
  e.g. when solving a sudoku puzzle...
          at some points to rub against
the custard...
  
    isn't thought an object then?
    it's a very real, sisyphus moment -
although pseudo the myth -
    because the object seems unmovable -
i.e., it seems to not budge,
                       that's why this is
an anti-psychology assumption:
       i am subject to the object that is, thought;
in pig latin:
   ego sub sum in ego...
    ****, how to put it...
        i (am) subsidiary toward the object,
       that is thought... (**** it, just the prefix,
  as way of shortcut)
   ego sub- sum, quando cogito esse sum...
whatever...
   you'd think that having attended
     a catholic school, they'd bother to teach
you latin... but no! oh no!
                                        wankers;
i'm guessing the reason they didn't bother
is because i went to a catholic school
  in an irish neighbourhood...
          now? now it looks like little bangladesh.

"depression" has a feminine nature: or a man domesticated, able to upkeep a household, but unable to compete with other men in a competitive workforce; well... i must be a ***** for writing "poetry"; never mind that: what's the ****** point of "intellectualising" clinical lethargy? better question still: doesn't the tortoise still outrun achilles? i.e.? you can't exactly be a marathon runner & a thinker at the same time... oh **** me, let alone a sophist / rhetorician! so what's there to moan about?

i hate these moment, but they're always
there,
   the misnomer-moments
in my bank of vocab. -
             how certain words have dual
functions -
   or counter-intuitive dual-quanta
                applicability -
           ask anyone on a construction site:
ever feel depressed?
        yeah, i would be, if you told
me to go to the gym and run the hamster
out of my life...
    seems the easier the task:
   the more content a man,
no wonder the polish saying goes -
zdrowie, na budowie
            (health on a construction site) -
an easy task isn't exactly
   an office work task: that's trivial -
it too can be easy, but it's trivial...
               the age old aesthetic
dichotomy of sparta and athens...
which doesn't imply that the simply
task of hammering in nails
   doesn't require refining and polishing
by constantly repeating until
perfection...
   trivial tasks don't really have that...
no matter how many times you
repeat the task, the trviality eats itself
up...
   again: as a word thief...
two grand words that used to exist -
the romance of melancholy,
   the romance of hyper-active melancholy
that's hypochondria...
   well... the current word is ugly...
    too geological, too "aeronautical"...
too vague...
        me? personally, i find that naming
something proper, is half
the burden of the symptom...
    comparison?
   well... you can't be exactly lazy if you
wake up in the morning and go
to work, and slack off... can you?
        companies rebrand and improve
their trademarks all the time...
    so why not call
              a condition by its proper name?
why not just call it
*clinical lethargy?
           i find that those who are diangosed
with "clinical depression"
   are constantly forced to explain themselves...
it must be more annoying for
the people "excusing" themselves
than a person listening to people
"excusing" themselves...
                 there's only one thing more
terrible than an actual symptom:
       the ******* details -
   if depressed people managed to confine
themselves to a symptomatic monism
rather than romancing the old venture
into the genesis: melancholy &
cartesian dualism...
            to me it's not called lazy -
      it's called clinical lethargy -
    something just a little short of narcopelsy
and something far from epilepsy
that can manifest itself in spontaneous
writing, or talking; with a good amount
of common, grounding sense with respect
to a rainbow spectrum of subjects;
as always, i prefer the old words to the new,
demeaning: leech-******* prone
                                 sycopanths of faked
                                       desires for sympathy.

i shouldn't be writing this... it's too mediocre: or, rather: just ****** obvious... i have to elevate this impromptu with higher thoughts: this bottle of cheap wine just finished has given me a sinister, wry, teenage girl sort of a smile: where ha ha deafens since you're laughing inside your own head... it's hochnacht... only yesterday i raged with a silent scream... i'm not going to wake the neighbours up... when the writing flows freely and it feels good: once upon a time... the howling and the laughter... i have come to the realisation that i require restraints... the silence scream almost dislodged my jaw... a bottle of wine and i'm all squinty eyed... absolutely content, thinking about tomorrow's dinner... what will i conjure... well... i haven't had prawns in a long while... a prawn carbonara... 2nd bottle of wine or take the shorter route with a night-cap of whiskey? ah... decisions decisions... if drinking doesn't **** me: let's just say i'll be midly irritated: but most certainly disappointed...

this is the original:

at least while in Russian i didn't have to spend
the time bothered about totalitarian democracy...
mob rule... however authoritarian
the Russian model is... no political ambitions:
beside the ambitions to live a simple life:
political correctness: but i'm not a politician...
to live among people politicised to the point where:
every second person might be Babushka doll tyrant
with micro-pet-peeves:

i can't actually improve on it...
unlike drink-driving...
drink-writing is... jumbled up with:
the deed of Pontius Pilate:
i was my hands clean
i drown my tongue...
   the much needed lubricant i always claim:
plus... i can claim...
what's that legal term...
gross negligence?
         it's not ****** it's manslaughter...
i'm not going to stand trial:
by any mob...
i was drunk all the way through: me Lowd...
i could be held accountable
if i had a sober: hard-on for what i was
writing... perhaps i'm writing without
conviction... or rather: the drink allows me
to decorate my "conviction" with
floral patterns of digression...
i really don't see how someone sober
can treat a drunk's words seriously...
but it's there as a lubricant...
again: to reiterate...
writing is not driving a car...
i can't be held accountable on these
being sober convictions...

coming back to Russia...
well... hasn't democracy reached a pivot
of its history that makes it:
lacklustre?
democracy is status quo...
democracy is more bureaucracy than
   it was a democracy when the barons
came together and attacked king John...
it was a democracy
during the years of electoral monarchy
in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
i veto: i never vote...
i tried once... but the paperwork
suffocated my interest to do so...
if everyone is involved in: "democracy"
then sooner rather than later
it degenerates into political correctness...
i'm not a politician: or for that matter
a rhetorician: why should i care what words
might: words get things done...
words allow being to do and be...
things will never be equipped with words...
i lie: i can arm a knock on wood
with a terrible onomatopoeia...
besides the point...

               in Russian i wouldn't expect to find myself
in a quasi-Stasi curriculum...
my fellow citizen leaves me: as i invite him
as suspect?!
that's not fair on the project: citizenship:
civility... oddly enough politicians are
hardly involved in matters that truly bother people...
wait... wasn't i supposed to recount
the *** i've had: let it drag out for a few
more entries before fizzling out
while i might return to my eclectic tastes?

all of a sudden... there's no: "oh... suddenly"...
that Walt Whitman reference...
prove your point...
that i once went to a gay bar with my cousin
that i allowed my *** to be groped...
that i allowed a man to put a tongue in my mouth...
that i have kissed men with tenderness:
of note... Ben... Tristan's friend from Bristol...
one night of all nights:
Hogmanay...              i'd steal pieces of Paris
and give it unto Edinburgh...
Paris first... Edinburgh second...
and there was St. Petersburg and Moscow...
Venice and Amsterdam... Stockholm...
Warsaw... Athens 3rd... because of the strip-club...
there was Barcelona and there was also Mombasa...
eh... Paris 1st... Edinburgh 2nd...

otherwise? oh... did you watch the France vs. Swiss
match? i missed the Spain vs. Croatia game:
i was watching some Whim-Bled-Don...
never mind...
it's good to see a plateau...
the ol' David vs. Goliath...
   or how... kylian mbappé became: fully human...
i don't like schadenfreude...
it must be a trait of the Germanic people...
even if they later dilute their blood with the Welsh
and the Celts and become Anglo-Saxons...
it's not that i fear: c.c.t.v. karma...
i just find pleasure in the sensation...
but it was beautiful to watch a talented,
aspiring footballer come against his first
proper: hurdle... like the rest of us...
almost as beautiful as the whole match was:
come on... after the missed penalty...
then 1 -1, 2 - 1, 3 -1... ending up being 3 - 3 and
unresolved in extra time...
then the roulette of penalties...
rarely can a football match be this: beautiful...
truly... as much as i love the soloists in
tennis... it's impossible to compare:
chalk is cheese... some might say...

- why are so many national anthems:
anaemic?
i only have a few national anthems that i like...
not via bias: the ****** Mazurek Dąbrowskiego...
the H'American: the Star-Spangled Banner...
Russian "The Internationale"
the French La Marseillaise
hell... thrown in the Shvabs
und zee Bavzarians with their Uber Alles...

oddly enough not the English anthem...
isn't it enough that Auld Lang Syne
beats all the above, songs?
i don't like international football:
sure... too much money in club sport
but i never want to feel as part of something
greater: bigger... not from the confines
of a football match...
no... sure: to be part of something bigger...
but not from the starting point
of a football match...
     i watch the game for the sake of it being
a game... how some people arrive at
a conclusion that it's a religion:
how they procreate and later
come to passing on their support allegiance to
club (let alone country) to their children?

well... something had to fill the void
if the original religion wasn't up for proper scratches:
so much for secularism...
i don't underestimate the value of said: new
religion... but we're still "talking" about sport...
hence my love for the underappreciated sports
at the Olympics: classical Greek wrestling...
table-tennis... archery...
and all the solo sports that also pay well:
like tennis...

bringing a flag of the individual to an event
should be seen as a faux pas...
it's a shame that it sometimes happens...

- yeah... why are so many national anthems:
anaemic... forgettable?
the Spanish and the Italians have ****** anthems...
suppose the Norwegians had a decent anthem:
oh, just because Norway produced a Grieg...
but Norway didn't produce a Grieg:
Grieg produced Grieg...
that's my problem with the lasso of:
national ownership of the people that stand out...
i'm not going to bombast this dear reader
with a quote by some ancient Greek philosopher
living in a city-state who was quoted as
saying: i'm the citizen of the world!

the current vicinity is my world:
i sometimes extend it when i cycle towards St. Paul's
cathedral...
how people become so... engrossed in their
football teams... that they pass on the banner
of support... allegiance to their children:
i don't think smart people reproduce...
i don't see the point of passing on my...
   shortcomings...
added the fact that i can entertain myself:
just pretty **** dandy well while...
seeing demon faces in clouds at night...

or faces in trees... pareidolia...
but they're not human faces...
i'd cite pareidolia  if someone accuses dear reader
of transphobia: whereas arachnophobia is
tingly: real...
well... what can one do:
if something is relocated into the crab-bucket
of shared-experience: a phenomenon...
anyone with a questionable sanity will
still pursue finding himself: his self:
via establishing working parameters of
the noumenon: the res-per-se... Kantian:
i wouldn't settle for a phenomenological
answer... i guess that' my "original sin"...

to state oneself unique...
not spaz-y'all... special...
  it's a conundrum to be and not be...
unquestionable dictations that repeat themselves:
like the years and the seasons that rummage through
them... the tides of the seas
and the burdens of earthquakes that
rumble like the sounds of a starved stomach...

i still fall asleep to...
christopher young's hellraiser II: hellbound
soundtrack most of the nights...
horror music: done proper...
the only romance...
the wine helps... he's no Prokofiev with
that Lt. Kije Suite... but...
i never seem to get bored:
i'd love to be this grand architect of dreams...
i fall asleep and fall into the abyss:
i'd imagine dreams to be...
             obstructions...
i'm almost glad since that one great adventure
of death is: tilting given the years...
i'm yet to make my own...
well... concerning the dead:
it takes nine months of mr. tadpole...
and several more to get memory functioning
before consciousness is arrived at:
memory comes prior to imagination...
memory is cinema:
a welcome cinema: if you can honestly account for
yourself:
the odd nights when you were found drunk
in public somehow don't matter:
asking for a police escort because you were
immobilised: m'eh...

ugh... such anaemic anthems...
of all the people in the world: the Italians have
an anaemic anthem...
a spaghetti bundle of murmur and morose...
how?

good to know: an interlude of a shot of ms. amber
between all that's: in vino veritas etc. etc.
in vino: vivo!
life: blood the bundle of hopes...
i might be deemed cowering into a corner
****** by shadows and succubus delusions...
i stated it felt cold while cycling through
the heat of cement of central London
wearing an 1813 t-shirt with a depiction
of the EISENKREUZ...

my ******* were hard and pinched...
it wasn't cold...
was i a breast-feeding ***** of a dog
or something?
i noticed a stare or two...
i started to blame it on the fabric...
later on the detergent...
how do we begin to fathom: dreams?
not the content of dreams: but dreams per se...
i have one memorable dream:
although i have so little...
running on an abstract that was a *****
while men imitating sheep were rolling down
chased by demons chopping their heads
off while i was... saving them from...
falling into the depth of nothing...

i was a teenager back then...
eh...
     so much for Freud and the altar of metaphor-objects...
insinuation-objects: or whatever the hell
you want to call a cucumber "if" it "isn't"!

- i know how alcoholics operate...
ooh! oh! suddenly the outbursts of "amnesia":
i call it a moral hangover...
they never bother to trace their deeds while
in the process of drinking...
what am i doing, while drinking?
i write...
i've seen at least one of my grandfathers
succumb to the drink without ever producing
some depth to his drinking...
unlike my father the near teattottle (****... 23
google result... tease me... add one more
obscure word...

teetotal on the topic of alcohol consumption:
well... it's probably genetic...
he had sleeper genes... the grandfathers worked
in the metallurgy industry...
not drinking would seem daft...
but seeing how my maternal gran-
managed to break my grandmothers hand...
most alcoholics will not account for their deeds:
drink and write: what drinker writes?
perhaps this is why i suspect all that's
ever written within the framework of
sobriety?

chevalier: mult estes guaritz...
i drink and listen to medieval songs...
why wouldn't you?
hell: if the moon is the right blue:
i'll swerve toward listening to an Adhan...

hey presto! teattottle rag... a googlewhack...
teattottle dig... another...

but i drink with accounts...
       i'm not going to... stumble into:
quasi-narcolepsy...
ingest some neuroleptic (anti-psychotic)
drugs: yes... yes...
the agitated soul (the sigma of animation)
disgruntled with a body: per se...
transgenderism can take a back seat
when it comes to: being disgruntled with
the body... eh... merely the focus on ***...
is... base... pointless...
the body is rock...
the mind is water... the posit for
consecrating oneself with animation is air...
gender-"confusion" is still bound to the quote:

to angels - vision of god's throne -
to insects - sensual lust...

to be this entombed with the ownership of this
carcass... to elevate ***-change therapies
over... cancer-treatment...
selfish *******: don't you think?
oh... wait... in a "democracy": i'm not supposed to judge...
the minority holds the sway: swerve...
argument...
and why is it that i drink?
sober people with all their self-aggrandizing
posturing...
they don't believe: half... halve the half and halve it
some more and more...
they still won't believe it...
their fellow citizen... comrade has been endowed
with powers that might make them:
buckle... or stipend themselves with
taking a knee to some ghostly authority...

again: i can't enjoy the suffering of others:
i've delved too much into the mime language of
animals...
there's no pleasure in seeing something
expected of civility be reduced to:
this heap of dung and bleeding *******...
it's no fun... if there was ever the noble savage...
i imagine myself the antonym:
the savage civilian...
oh how the subversion gummy squad of
pink breeding brine and brown
how they come at words...

what's next? i replace letters with...
chopsticks imitating Morse code? tap tap tap...
tap tap... tap... tap tap tap tap... tap tap... tap?!

- i like writing during the night: because...
i'm comforted by the... "image":
reality... of other people being asleep
while... the same people later wake up
and have to... succumb to a formality of language...
i never liked formal language...
language of the: "expected":
at times a misnomer "..."
other times a metaphor... with gagging rights
to shoot with bullets of ridicule...

not when the minority hold sway over
the majority:
with each chance to vote: i veto my right
to vote...
there was a time when
the majority held values to uphold the status
of minority: but since then
the minority wants to sway
the argument of the majority:
have your whittle rainbow gimp ****...
without me!

no! nein! nein! nie! niet!
i admire Russia...
if the people require a leash and a muzzle:
the thrills of freedom get in the way
of keeping **** together?!
so be it!
   these ******* westerners and their
"concerns" of "freedom":
**** me... what good is "fweedom"
when it becomes oppressive in the hands
and tongues of the many?
it's one thing when it holds its finicky sway
in the hands of the few
but among us everyday greyish folk?

once upon a time...
the king and the democratic barons...
now... the Russian tyrant
and the piggish suckling at the ****
oligarchs...
hell... if i owned a dog... and i was drinking:
the ****** "thing" would probably bark
at me as it barked at my grandfather...
thank god i own a cat...

i drink and just show it more tenderness...
a bit like i do with prostitutes...
i'm no Jack the ol' Ripper...
i give us much love as can be allowed...
and give some more... to sprinkle some salt
on the already available wounds...
i'll love and love more until it starts to ache...
i don't want to understand women:
i love them too much in their freedoms:
working from some previously gained
or otherwise...

i don't want to understand women:
hence? i chose to delight myself on some stumbling
block of clarity...
now... if they can't understand this:
to hell with being loved:
to be feared! as a man...
i fizzle through the static and watch myself
become: potential... the ugliest potential
i've already cited...
perhaps my words will agitate someone to
do a synchronised bidding?
you never know...

  blah... blah... and more gagging: blah.

.sometimes it pays, to be a little bit paranoid, which implies: you're more attune to certain things...

currently, the parliament of england,
or should i say: the commons
is doing a staged coup to meßmeriße
any member of the public:
watching...

     all it takes is for the b.b.c. journo'
to talk to ol' Nigel...
   storm Nigel looks,
more or less: cucked...
   in the current common cipher
parlance...
         like a schoolboy...
eyes slightly watering,
    cordial,
                  very much: hush-hush...
we're about to see a very
impressive magic trick...

point being: i hope i'm wrong...
but what some call
the government,
and i started calling a brothel /
  fiasco...
    well...
          the no-deal brexit
is off the table...
       now there's a motion
  to ask for an extension...

an extension...
that will last until the 22nd of May...
remind me...
when do the european parliamentary
elections take place?
   23rd of May...
oh... i see...
   wanna see the poker card?

as much as i hate
      jacob rees-mogg
(in the sunday times interview,
he disclosed how
he can't boil an egg...
   and that's when my hatred
ends,
   and... pity begins)...
he is, in all honesty...
   the next alastair campbell...
i.e. the next spin-doctor...
i mean...
  rhetoric is one thing,
rhetoric in poetry is...
not what a rhetorician is
on the political level...

               from the interview
i just got spaghetti,
only now i'm untangling it...
basically...
if all goes to plan...
and the plan being:
    the anglo-ßaß don't want
a "soft" exit from the european
union, i.e. they don't
want the e.u.'s deal...
   a few clues about laws...
and how:
   well...
the european parliamentary
elections take place on the 23rd of May...
the proposed delay lasts until
the 22nd of May...
so... chances are...
   someone from England...
will be elected into european
parliament... there will be an MEP...
or at least...
that's the plan...
   to default on the exit from
the union, on the grounds
that the leaving party,
is still, somehow, represented
in the european parliament...

that's the plan,
   you can spot the schemers
right away...
   the tactic of stalling has paid off...
it's like i'm back in high-school...
i know the sort of people,
i used to talk to them
on the day of hanging in an essay...
they'd put it off,
2 weeks in advance,
until the last day / night...
and pull out an all-nighter...
drop caffeine pills
   and hand in a rushed essay...
but in this scenario:
it's not a grade B
     for making an exit...
but a grade A for making
    a referendum result being
revoked:
   on grounds of democratic
jurisprudence / law...

   unlike with the Irish...
this "2nd referendum" had to become
spaghetti tangled...
it had to have the language
of and for a people,
overtly sensitive,
   in their quest of being
the sole arbitrators of democracy...

so much for the argument:
well, but those unelected officials
in Brussels...
**** me! what about the elected
officials in London?!
it might be that i suffer
from myopia and i can't
the two apart...

    i hope i'm wrong...
but... when those chose the extension
date, from march 29th
to may 22nd...
   with the european elections
being staged on the 23rd of may...
you start to think:
   they're not going for
a straight-out 2nd referendum...
they need to cover it up
in an elaboration
of their Hydra...
      their bureaucratic intricacy weight...
paper trail...
   trial by paper...

where is Nigel the fire-*******?
Nigel the tornado?
   to me... he looks like he just
experienced sensual bliss
with some Dutch *******...
or maybe that's just me...
2 and a half years...
   and there was me,
thinking that only priests
                          were useless:
how many times will
you drill that metaphor
into the minds of people?
   any longer?
              the shittest magic trick
i've ever seen...
at least a magician can do
some sort of magic...
   2000 years later...
  and the wine is still wine...
and the bread is still bread...

   or at least: this is me...
having just started watching
vikings episode 1 - 4 of season 1...
listening to biodrive: psychopath...
i hope i'm wrong...
     i really really do.

the motto: a healthy body, a healthy mind...
fair enough...
can the healthy body tell me
where its palette is?
  just asking... can this mind over mind mantra:
this... no one likes a pickled brain...
a healthy body equates to me:
a mind reared for learning - sponges and
syringes...
does this "healthy body" desire...
alternative tastes?
blue cheese? trout caviar?
              oysters?                          haggis?
out of curiosity:
or does... keeping around a play-thing...
third person addressee...
hard to miss it: an "analogue" i that keeps
refering to the "deus ex machina" like
it's not exactly "in it"...
    healthy jog: except on concrete...
sure thing boss... on a patch of grass...
who said that jogging was good on cement?
i swear tires and using it as sandpaper for
the rubber: weathered: withered: weathered:
he loves me... he loves me not...
russian roulette of plucking petals of
a sunflower...
the last time i had... a pornstar body...
i started ******* girls that had tattoos in "random"
places... ha ha... "random"...
signatures of the madame...
   i was... her... dragon... on the right...
shoulderblade...
because that's where my chernobyl scar is...
"random": oh so "random" tattoos!
the next time i go pornstar full body
b.d.s.m. latex... i will not **** the next mosquito
that lands on my body and i pretend to be
sleeping... i will not pancake it...
flies... earthworms... all these creeping bogus
investigations of the telescope for "alien"...
i can spare...
even spiders... even though i have a tease
of arachnophobia...
but mosquitos? i'd do the impossible...
don boxing gloves... and pinch it by the testicles...
with both...
healthy body = healthy mind...
   more like: a healthy body ≠ a mind that does
a whole lot of thinking...
you need the pickling juices for that...
    Jean des Esseintes eccentricities... "familiarities"...
last time i would hear a rhetorician
from a man that was also able to run a marathon...
i'd play muahmmad: and she should play:
the whispering angel gabriel...
a healthy body = a healthy mind...
i don't believe in the existence of a healthy mind...
a mind of either blank...
an ape-**** hollow mind, yes...
      what's my favorite echo-chamber?
i tend to should these words into...
the echo-chamber of solipsism...
          the mild-reflection on clinical altruism...
since: i wouldn't call the autistic flash-gordons
of this world to have a fulfilling
desire to: build on the concept of self...
         such that it already is... devoid of...
all the temptations...
crass words...
but would a healthy body please tell me...
the concerns for the palette?
blue cheese... oysters... caviar...
very piquant flavours...
  what of... yes... haggis again...
   what of... pancetta... what of...
                  mushrooms: honey fungus...
marinated in oil and white spirit vinegar?
what of fenugreek pickles of the raj?
what of all the plethora spices of the indian cuisine?

a healthy body = a healthy mind...
when... the body is subjected to healthy "exercise":
work... workhorse labour...
to hell with exercise! exercise "fow foon"?
that's cheating you of the healthy body = healthy mind
duality... hello... h'allo hamster on the wheel!

last time i had a pornogrpahic movie body
i had the "privilege" of ******* women:
who had tattoos in the "wrong" parts of the body...
bullet-point markers...
i was... memorable... a dragon on her right
shouldblade...
something much more diabolical concerned itself
with much of her arm above the elbow...
the gateway ****-boy who she alleged was...
an older man and she was kidnapped for money:
just your atypical russian harlequinn novel...

a healthy body...
  how about... an inquisitive palette and a pickled
brain... i don't expect much thinking is allowed
when the body retains a full geometry of
"battling" arthritis et al.,
       language as a process of decay...
awaiting new sprouts...
not from rock and bone and tensed muscles...
call 'em meatheads because
they "work-out" or call 'em meatheads
because: they mosh... and headbang?

i subscribe to the latter...
and my echo chamber is that of solipsism...
i ooze in a breath... into this chamber...
let's call it a flute... i'm hardly expecting
a reply on the basis of
a consonant-vowel construct like:
the prefix definite article of hebrew:
and that... roulade of laughter: ha ha ha...
with language... i decay...
but in my decay i also stab back
with "rumours" of exfoliation...

it's an erotica perplex... ingesting...
all the scent of a lazy autumnal wood...
it's not yet the zenith of summer,
spring is far from sending a postcard...
and i'm already thinking about
autumnal scent...

      piquat: an inquisitive palette requires
a partially pickled brain...
the body can play the masquerade...
healthy though: via physical labour exercise...
or... i know that riding a bike for
mere looks... can breed... a...
    adverse symptom of succumbing to
classical roman bulimia...
index and ******* down your throat...
wait about 3 minutes...
the foodstuff comes back up
like a furr-ball...

         so much for the mirror...
or at least... so much for... pretending to do
what will never come to pass...
when contemplating the river of Heraclitus
or the sea of Xerxes...

i see moonlight now... yes... a membrane
of mercury everywhere: notably on metal
and stone...
come the wintry season...
a walk down a red carpet...
the crystal **** of paparazzi flicker
paving the way...
shards of a body disobeying orders...
the head moving on a seasaw left
to right to catch the imaginary camera flashing...
in winter... when the frost exfoliates
on the concrete: as light does in the *****
of stars upon the sky...
when mercury drips its membrane
onto all things: visible... determined to remain
thus...

perhaps it's a masculine "thing"...
hardly a body willing to apply itself to the laziness
of an oyster... but...
i guess vogue... ***** vogue zenith...
of european 17th / 18th century...
***** of kings: plump cottage pies...
more cushion for the push'on...
*******... thighs... kim novak hypnosis...
anything that hitchhock would have
turned a tongue to octopus and slobbered over...
beside these size 0.... coathanger "*****"...
break 'em at the joints and be leftover
with... a mush...

     the "exoskeleton" of man: god, morality,
conscience and thought... not in that order...
the next time i come under the inquisitive
inquiry of the *****-actor body...
voyeurism... yes... that will be the day...

again... a healthy body: down and out of
a gym... or: in and out of a construction industry?
a healthy body = a healthy mind...
when... the body isn't being exercised for
the sake of the body: to "look"...
or to "appear"... to be "perceived"...
a healthy body can... actually = an unhealthy mind...
when the body preoccupies the mind
to not deviate / explore from...
that basic rubric of 2 x 2 = 4...
that is the basic rubric...
the rest is just wording either hubris or hiatus...

beside that: to reiterate...
a healthy body... so... the omnivore palette?
eats anything... ***** anything that: doesn't move?
a healthy body = a healthy mind = an inquisitive palette?
if we're going to talk healthy body / healthy mind...
and eat nothing but poached chicken *******...
recite the number of calories...
point being?
    recitals of... a bland chinese takeaway guide
to cannibalism...
exercised bodies... "fearless"! in their endeavours...
ate: to ****... in between exercised...

we would like to eat those hamsters
with both skin... and bone...
not enough meat...
you see... and we do like a bit of crunch
and the juice of marrow...
if... you don't mind...

       an exercise in... staging... pomp...
and... the circumstance is already given...
mediocre poetry: grand-standing...
love the ****** ideal...
best told to ******* and...
start hustling via latex gimp...

                     best to leave the matter to
the indu-aryans: or not...
                             य(अ)                  समओक.

i'm an egoist like i might be a spider -
a quizzical pointer and a loiter of hubris:
that word again...
   i must have mistook hubris for hiatus -
i see no future for the arguments
concerning genes -
         beside: solo project i -
                and what will continue is
the concept of a species -
i am quiet thankful that i don't demand
the face of the slobbering gods to be
of a particular inclination -
     in that: i was never fond of english:
philosophy - once the parameters
of darwinism became established:
there was no longer any blinking involved...
or at least missing the abyss -
the abyss forgot to manufacture dreams
and the darwinistic enterprise wanted
me to peer into it with unflinching metaphors:
and scarred details...
that a man might refrain from
potentially petting an arachnid...
   then again: i'm only a cat person because
******* are one thing...
but parading with genitals of dogs
is just another daydream -
      once upon a time:
                   it wasn't like the darwinistic adventure
came with a cute poetry akin
to the copernican revolution:
cited: he stopped the sun and moved the earth...
perhaps to borrow from history:
when people were wrapped up in
a "solipsism" of their own species -
           that not much from "elsewhere"
could be borrowed, tailored to
a mimic... incorporated... slyly suggested...
the full bodied and ****** consequence
of the old lies and emotions of squabbling
men and ferocious women -
beside this current neuter:
flimsy generic loaning of insect:
             ontology?
                for what was deserving for men
to imitate: a rhetorical crux / pinnacle...
that would never become a cocktail of
more robots more a priori nibbling at
the old unfathomable god:
a god outside of a polytheism that can
only become a brain-freeze and a tongue tie...
it's not that darwinism isn't... a truth beggar...
but you can't exactly make incisions
of an existentialism with darwinism -
how the 20th century becketts got "away with it"
is beside me...
but i can't be a man no more
a brick when i'm facing a comparison
from an alien revelation of insects:
to **** is to be eaten - just as much...
hell... i wouldn't mind being eaten
as long as i couldn't be milked...
         i am truly alienated by the task of
preserving genes:
there are a billion chinese and a billion
blue indian raj examples to pick... from...
it's not like the species will die...
i am no atlas and this solo project
is bothersome to have to question: to begin
with...
  i never liked darwinism because
i knew it would go far beyond a mere
observation: it had to be incorporated -
the behaviour of lions or of insects -
          after all: i am not subject to my own
undeciding human...
                  any more than i am:
objecting to: the crowd pleasing objectification
snooker or borrowing from:
these ambivalent critters of pouch shadow
and a thought...
             i'd want to summon
the old gods but there they are...
no subject matter ignites their need for
a presence...
            they might as well have secluded
themselves on the gentle silence
of a scratching orb trace to tease saturn -
i want to find the crows mystifying -
i do - but that doesn't help much...
i don't want to delve into life that's not
immediately concrete -
i followed a whiff of making concrete
but then i knew: ****'s the real stinker
and the juice...
                    i played a ****** when looking
at a spider feast on a moth...
days prior i was inviting
moths to the nursery of my bedroom...
- you simply can't create a cosmopolitan
allure for cafe existentialism with
priding yourself on darwinism -
it's not wrong it's just: i don't want to
borrow from the very base, crude:
psychopathically teasing tendencies
that... well... deviations from mammalian...
if "we" borrowed from elephants alone...
from whales...
were we oh so solipsistic prior...
yes... we must have have been...
we domesticated horses...
we domesticated dogs...
   we created bonsai tigers...
             we probably petted poster / glue
nibbling goats...
we forgave the cannibalism of chickens
when one could meet the stump
and axe: a golgotha like congregation
of drinking blood...
         a violent old god...
death and jester but a pretty innocent
apple...
now a benevolent god and a fruit:
a bundle of metaphors and metaphysics -
it's still the old trick of poetic cannibalism -
i'm sure that if i worked on the apple...
i'd get a cider from it...
am i cured from the curse of the wine -
what if my body is a rumble of whiskey
and a potato chip?
  is my corpus "antichristi" this...
wheat "buckle"... what if i can turn
the bread into a consecration of meaning
with... a ******* gnocchi or a noodle: bundle?

- catholicism - well: perhaps born into it...
but i'm missing the confirmation language
that even the great atheistic tinker and tailor
and: how biology and the rule of
the thespians killed off the alchemists and
poets...
            let's just pretend! let's... let's...
just... pretend...
             years later i can finally appreciate
Al Purdy...
   i know what put me off...
the notes in a copy of his: rooms for rent
in the outer planets...
i need to buy some rubber
to erase these pencil details...

             female handwriting -
i know it... the letters are al bubbly...
they're not akin to chicken scratchings...
bubbly ******* of toads...
"unsentimental view of nature"
a real "treasure trove of antics"...
what put me off: what always puts me off:
a need to annotate poetry:
to teach it like one might teach
a bunch of young Frankensteins
a lesson or two in anatomy...

that language so already sacred in it
being scarce has to endure...
a postmortem of additional details
of: that it can't be left alone like
a floral insignia on a base dulling of
Hittite brown:
     a bark of wood the colour of cardamom...
the argument of: well...
those egyptians were so advanced
back then... even the Iraqis...
hell... the Greeks were advanced peoples
too... looks like they took a *******
bicycle to hiatus land!

burdening me with a past and:
that darwinism doesn't really life...
a concept of / a "concept" of the Avignon
Papacy...
  i'm strapped mr. gill and mrs. gimp all
latex to a spider and some
******* chimp'zee bonanza...
           no one teaches dogs to swim...
in a priori dimming they: know
a duck from a water...
   they know a pancake from a victoria sponge:
hypothetical:
borrowing from the 1960s:
a hitchhiker in the form of a mushroom
apparently opened my eyes
and i am now: the ego-son
of the fungus with potential to:
amass the same sort of gorilla build
architecture from... scraps of...
a plethora of vitamin sources...
i'll eat the deer...
the tame the boars and shave them
to attain crick bacon...
the ******* gorilla will laugh a blank
autistic look at me:
weighing in at a K.O. from...
papyrus and twigs and perhaps
a concept of: straightening bananas...

this slow sludge of walking "backwards"
from **** sapiens to **** similis -
this opposing venture into
anti-literature -
it's not that the mirror of hopes
is now a glass grieving from a lack
of shadows...
  no one wants to find themselves
beside: an exfoliation of tongue...

once more: the church bell of the uvula...
the brain the sponge...
my liver the punching bag
of an alcoholic opponent -

    that bukowski is some this that and
the other: and he knew:
the pressures of 100 years...
that there was also this Al Purdy...
and i too made my own wine -
pretending to blindly support
a Vest Ham -
             way way out west in the east:
that i did see a tease of Venice but
that i probably will never venture
south of the thames to
this cut from the home counties
of: how Burial (dubstep)
originated...
strapped to a mythology of the north...
Thames: a river without a clarity
of mountains:
how the Thames cannot
be celebrated akin to the Vistula
or the Danube...

              murky grey fonz -
this lingering tide amass of custard...
england's last lacklustre exertion
from the 1960s...
some kingly riddle ransom of
crimea associated for the purpose
of crimson -
a taming of purple in the hue
of hooded Burgundian -
  my solving tiresome base for
eyes -
    it's not that Greenwich mean-time
could ever be "important" -
insomniac polyphony of the hours
in passing...
   is more beside the equator...
some topsy-turvy pancake a butter
lofty toast:
that toasted rye that toasted
sourdough... or a ciabatta slice...
             is more and more than this
arrogant prize of english worship
"Blumenthal"...
        
a bonsai tiger's eager inquisitive prompt
from behind a door:
retreating like a lasso or
a folding of bedsheets -
or an ironing of unironic jeans...
some things to be worn should
be best unironed -
   notably jeans -
          azure: clarity chippy of:
variation:
   death's desire to come along
the purpose of lost purples:
in denim like a...

              arbeit macht frei will
forever stand the test of time among
the workaholics...
it's as little infamous as it is:
the currency of keeping with
details of a towing of two un-opposing
factions...

these service jobs and their lowering
of physical exertion:
substituted by gym maintenance -
service jobs and the "work" of...
loitering the hours in...
                 these service jobs and the clocking
in of hours: eternity begot the yawn...
adam begot the scratching of the head:
god conceived of the hierarchy of
taking the knee:
satan borrowed a circus and
a seizure for the future of
ronin imagination...

   can a fire itch?
        i'm pretty sure the licking of ice
can be allowed a fathom of both
an itch and a burn and:
       towing glue...
pockets of dry water staging coups of
crystalised details
of attention *******...
  
and a: between...
   the suffocating mantle piece of...
morbid avenues:
the t.v. robbed the zombies
of their pitiful dues...
machinery hatchling detail...
                  a burden of phallus and
a hammer...
crude "avenue": a **** the size
of a nail...
all life a coffin an scalp that snow
is also dandruff -
and there is nothing of a limit to tow
a continuity -
the species will survive...
the species will survive:
there are enough "stupid" and *****
people to preserve it...
more ***** than "stupid"..

             they are not to be...
coerced with submissions on the grandours
of religion...
having to preserve their appetite
of disinhibition...
they are to be kept on their own
worth of: kept perpetual:
there's no siding of the **** similis project
akin to the lizard kings with the meteor...
so it happens: the moon was sleeping...
when that little nugget of: oops...
****** up the tides and sleeping
patterns of proto-happenings...

    - as i am having "my" kitchen refurbished...
the surrealism of a fride-freezer
occupying a space in "my"
living / civil room -
where the t.v. is this altar of mundane
sacrifices...
at least there's still a concept
of a bedroom and the need for
a bed and the thorough avenues
of abating sleeplessness...

       i dare to sleep because i have
no wish for a *** life that's
a demanding expansion of...
custard-**** of an alter-ego of paragraph...

biting the ******* of
a schadenfreude category:
by the time she becomes an exhausted
**** in the pornographic clogging
of exhausting the machinery:
there were some organic components?
there was a "riddle" of
a lumberjack and a carpenter..
associated to.. ahem... wood?
i want to wish for a plain & simple
trucker analogy...
but then the agony of
conjuring up a chair & table...
and a rocker... and one of those
serpents of moses...

    god blessed grievances
to make elaborations with mahogany
that it would never become:
tantalizing marble:
                            
in a periodical inconvenience of tome:
this time: my lacking...
i will never find it an easy ride
to appeal / appease the
morbidity of the throng...
  having to tow a romance
of england...
a little detail a little of everything
and everywhere...
a pact with celtic / ginger
*******...

    ooh! hot coal... i am an european
5ft8 dwarf... a 6ft6 african goliath
is picking my cotton...
and i own a whip: and i am:

       nie z tego rodzony...
                            it's my little alien
planet of: but it's not important
right now: 100 years from now
when... my contemporaries are
a wish for sanskrit in both
itch and dust...
      
                biGGer... beTTER...
tease the doubling of consonants...
i'm tired i'm just simply tired
of excusing my contemporaries...
whatever they wanted to be
achieved: they have achieve it...
i'm proto-****** little cog little
blister: tamed mustard...
my little nowhere this "here"...

                good enough...
   a variation of aleister crowley bids
you...
      a night knitted with dreams...
and no... pangs of the horror of doubt...
closure for the things eaten
raw... a beef superstition
surrounding... what came to be known
as a tartare steak.

        god - to appease a minor public...
this little ******* gauge of a little public:
this carthage beside a blooming rome...
no... i'm not: excuse me...
i'm not native: this tongue is acquired...
i will not be mentioned in
the colonial anals as
this ******* imbecile of coercion...
this past without ridicule this past
with: goliaths toying the junctions
of exhausted base q. to an "i." unfathomable
first...
               runner junction...
i'm becoming tired of either
side of this bothersome argument...

hail babylon! hail an impeding tomorrow!
**** the 100 year from now.
best of me: no fear mongering
game to tow genes as me too:
a gamer invoked...
humanity survives...
the individual dies...
perhaps a beethoven is riddling
the hive with nuance...
humanity survives:
the individual dies...
i probably wasted my life on
ambition...

   then again: i didn't waste it on
a delusion of a societal project of
poly-                 multi-culturism -
                     i wasn't born on the Faroe Islands...
i had to come about an itching for
life: ventured for a cleaning and a kippah
for a tonsure -
i came across a grief of scalping -
i came across a curry...
i imploded an empire and sent out
invitations and became...
day by day less and less of London...

i ventured out of London and i found myself
in: inbreeding territory -
i became... sick from the homogenous  
zebras of parlance...
   black on black: white is white...
       it's a sickness from detailing
the aftereffects of gravity when having
to sort-out: a belief in the promenade...
            
   whatever... 100 years from now...
i will need to be dead:
for my writing to be elevated from
mere hobby to... this suffocating pride
and orthodoxy canon i want
it to exfoliate in...
then again: no...
                  then again: i am not in a position
to leave behind a pyramid...
i might leave some rattle and bones...
but most certainly not the toils
an wavering of others...
for... a flimsy prospect of: transcending
ambitions...
best played out as truant...
gobshite a god-envy
of a rhetorician's envy...
         stutter to excavate punctuation...

   yes... tomorrow and that: again...
and come sleep come death
come... the tiresome first breathed...
red and ginger...
ginger a tinge or orange ******* with
brown... this precursor of
loiter: a dirtying of earth with ash.

everyone can agree on the fact that scholasticism
existed in medieval Europe...
i'm not even going to tackle the dichotomy
of scholasticism "vs." humanism...
but... what is apparent... from what i've heard
and seen...
scholasticism wasn't replaced by humanism...
but... pop-psychology...
i.e. the schematic-ism of man...
        Oxford dictionary has yet to approve the term:
schematicism...
   from the "holy trinity" of Freud -
the father the ego
   the son the superego
the holy spirit the id... blah blah, blah, blah...
the fragmented man in search for...
for me... less of a "soul" and more of
   the sigma... the totality of what is man...
   such the fragmentation of man...
it's almost impossible to find the right sort
of geography one can orientate oneself
around...
i find man too fragmented... too splintered...
i am sure of this...
scholasticism has been replaced with
post-humanism of schematicism....
we have the supposed schematic of man...
but... this ******* genie is not going
back into his lamp...
unless he is put back together is some
jumble, some, dissection freak-show...
    why didn't i pursue a career in chemistry:
even though i studied the art (science)
until i was 21... i didn't want to be the rat
in a laboratory...
           the hamster on the wheel...
apart from the experiment that took almost
a week... synthesising esters...
the best experiment i ever conducted was
in high school... synthesising polyesters...
the event horizon of pinching plastic akin to
how you can't mix oil with water...
how oil is a layer a "tier" above the water...
this is where i am...
   schematicism... i find man trapped...
choked by pop-psychology...
putting himself back together like some...
Frankenstein's monster...
              it's painful to watch, to hear...
it lies so heavy on my heart that...
it almost makes sense to: xiao xin...
   small heart... careful heart...
                literal ******* complimentary...
overt complications / nuances of Chinese
ideograms like i have a ******* spare
day to nuance emoticons, for, ****'s, sake!
yes, because Latin script was not destroyed
by the Hebrew deity like cuneiform
or the hieroglyphs... only that in Chinese
the X could be / ought to be written as...
                                                                      Ź...
******* lemon ******* paper dragons...
squint at my ******* sour: ooh... ooh...
gist gist: ******* juicy plum Hoisin duck
sauce! mmm... ******* yummy!
get my ******* cotton spindle threads from
Sri Lanka or Bangladesh...
Europe is the existential ferment of
existential values... as useless as a fork when
you're presented with a bowl of soup!
slurp up, and hope for the soup to be clear
and have some vermicelli to boot!
but... how else to look at public conversation?
if once upon a time in medieval Europe
there was a trend for scholasticism...
that was replaced with humanism,
romanticism, existentialism...
no wonder... post-humanism...
a return to scholasticism: schematic-ism...
i should reword it as:
a day in the life of an evolutionary
psychologist...
    but, but i thought the soul does not
exist? what logic, what soul?
since, ergo, there's no god?
           somehow the Copernican revolution
could back-peddle... return to the background...
i'm with Nietzsche in my argument
against Darwinism...
   Darwinism has mishandled ontology
beyond comparison...
it hasn't even elevated our attention to detail
/ increased our fascination with the natural world...
with... mantises... with spiders...
i'd love to rid myself of my stupid
arachnophobia... in all honesty? i love spiders...
******* super freaks...
but i think i'm more fascinated with
frogs and earthworms...
   i'd love to take a selfie with a freshly shat out
tapeworm... no... i'm not scared of spiders...
just... there's never a spider
the size of a 10kg Maine **** cat when
you need one to scuttle alongside you
on a leash... ****** reality...
i just don't get it...
               if i was once diagnosed as schizoid...
for being: bilingual...
sorry... this world doesn't want me to make
sense of it... i tried... supposedly "sane" people
are not making sense any-more...
sure... i was diagnosed as X...
but... this X is sort of... it sort of has become
a backstage: ooh: oh! ****'s about to become
acquainted with the fan... time for proper ****** blitz...
i mean: i could understand Soviet style
leftism... empire solid: cheap metal...
loads of nukes... but... western style leftism
is a ******* joke-prop...
   flimsy hair-dye brigade...
and i do come from a former satellite state
of the soviet union... the Czechs still hate the Polacks
thinking that it was Polacks that moved
in the tanks into Prague in 1968... maybe...
it was a Warsaw Pact brigade...
  whatever...
                      i still have a fetish for:
die Deutsche-Zunge...
             but see... the Copernican perspective...
you can sort of ignore... great...
   we're on a pebble in an ocean of nothingness...
nothing changes...
but... Darwinism? has been hijacked...
it's... insufferable... it's so in your ******* face...
like... feminism... Darwinism = feminism...
next you'll hear: stoic darwinism... like you might hear:
cynic feminism...
horseradish load of rubbed-off *******
*******!
          i get it! i get it! stop, rubbing, it, in!
that's it... the ******* universal explanation...
like Jesus on the ******* Cross
Herr Darwin with his space in **** similis...
odd... the ancient people had knowledge
of the existence of the apes...
but... hmm... how much of a comparison is necessary?
when you start to look beyond it...
say: well... that's ugly... that's animal...
let's do something better... let's conjure the beautiful!
these days? good luck with that!
but like Nietzsche i abhor Darwinism...
when it comes to Darwinism i'm a *******
Mary Shelley advocate... Darwin throws me a monkey...
Mary throws me Frankenstein...
i'm siding with the Frankenstein...
what the hell has changed since the geocentric model
became the heliocentric model?
from the very public interactions:
we've managed to reach the "dark side of the moon"
perspective... no... this world is...
lunacentric... everyone's ******* cuckoo...
and i will, ******* die on this little hill...
with firm affirmations and said convictions...
because... why not?
but that's good... i can scribble these little "protests"
while pretending to be the... cool... collected
normie at work... and i am just that...
but inside... i'm ******* boiling...
i'm screaming... i'm Atlas wrestling with Prometheus...
but that's also good...
   because: i'm jealous...
of whom? Charles Olson... the Maximus poems...
call me stupid but... i'm jealous of those poems...
no... i could never be jealous of
ol' Ezra... hmm... King David... oh yeah: him...
to have been the man to have written the psalms...
de profundis...
     let's face it... i couldn't be jealous of king Solomon...
brothel owner...
             but with a man like Day-vid...
   to be so absorbed in music...
               my kind of man...
                  such a beautiful man...
          as sang about via Leonard Cohen in Hallelujah...
and yes... Jeff Buckley did it better...
such the glorious spectacle of the most
absorbing sort of pain... you actually want
to feel his pain... trans-empathetic....
to hell with your trans-sexuality confusions...
    oh to feel this similar... to sigh like Jeff sighed...
this hidden-rot-of-anger in me at the political
language that's current in England...
   this... ****-fist-fake-leftoid pseudo-Soviet imitations
with no grounds in reality!
blah! blah!
                    ******* more: blah! blah!
pink-hair-dye frigid pseudo-sociopathic virgins...
or is that sociopathic pseudo-virgins?!
still ******* frigid... not good luck either left
or right when trying to shoot a load...
          i'm 35 and already tired of life...
libido insomnia... war-esque perpetuated: also
insomnia... but... clearly, apparently:
no ******* war... not the sort of wars one might
conjure when having to conscript civilians...
back-of-the-head sort of "wars"...
              shape-shifting chess... the horses ate too many
rotting apples... became drunk... stumbled...
then had a Picasso diarrhoea session of...
E-HA! let's paint! oh no... this world doesn't bother me...
it's just a massive ******* joke to me...
it's counter intuitive...
if... i were placed... in a more primitive society...
there wouldn't be a talk of a Bernie Ecclestone...
     there wouldn't be a Rod Steward...
            believe me... if Darwinism was to be done...
proper... men like me...
we wouldn't be restricted from utilising our...
naturally gifted capacities... of... wrath-thirst...
how we must have... nuanced it... hid it...
                oh... but those feminists and their:
patriarchal construct arguments...
       sure... it's only safe... when you have a boxing match...
but... i know it: there's a terrible beast sleeping
in me... i know it... when i... sometimes relax...
drinking my white wine aphrodisiac...
when having two sessions of exercise...
and then... ******* the brains out of a Turkish
******* in a brothel...
but... no no no... if Darwinism was true...
               i could follow a Longshanks... an Edward...
we're doing counter intuitive things...
Napoleon? and then, what? ******?!
the latter i can understand as a sophist / rhetorician...
whatever...
           if i were to exercise my natural rights...
if i were to exercise my natural rights...
i wouldn't have to deal with these *******'s worth
of social constructs of appeasing the time-wasting weaklings!
if i were returned to my natural state...
rather than these... polite... politeness-titillating:
Christian *******'s worth of timidity...
i hate it...
                                         everything about this world
is unnatural, counter-intuitive, overtly-feminine,
weak, pardonable, fake...
horror-stricken, worth demanding more of,
too ******* "artistic"...
       smelling of a mingling of acid and rotten eggs...
in a world where society delves into
the appreciation of staged violence...
but abhors actual violence...
    this phobia stricken conglomerate of weaklings...
if Darwinism was done: right and proper...
no... you wouldn't have these sordid discrepancies...
if nature had its sway...
          if only nature: had its sway...
and not the mind of man...
              the feminist angle: of the social construct
of patriarchy: would be the least of your worries...
i'm lethargic... borne from this...
hideous weakness of salvation born from
a suffering... never to be celebrated from
the advent of vitality that was once glorified in
the years B.C.
           Darwinism never promised anything,
it just hijacked the strength and overturned it
with psychologism - bogus explanations of
CUCKS! it ****** the vitality i was originally equipped
with! and what did it do?
the Star of David inversion...
what was once on top, singular...
now became a flattened plateau of a "democracy"...
i can't believe this anglophone *******...
Ezra rallied against usury...
   me? i'll rally against Darwinism...
a man of my stature should not have to bow
before someone biologically inferior
to him... naturally! naturally this shouldn't happen!
but it is... pray: send you earthquakes,
tornados, all the elemental proofs!
   but i bow, regardless...
                  with as much... hatred as can be
easily disguised... with more animosity than
hatred... and that's still: the sort that can be best
hidden... because... society expects me to do so...
but... should i ask nature...
oh... oh... nature would have a really troubling counter
narrative: that it would allow me
to exercise! ******* dim-wits, Dickensian *******
dim-wits... happily married to exercising the play
of cricket... ****-wits... English-****-wits;
such....eagerness...
the weak shall inherit the earth...
     and make it... a shored stone outside the realm
of the fertile grounding...
                if the vitality in our midst is not
protected... then... SUFFER!
you ******* schmucks! your ******* wonderbra
elect gimmicks!
*******: die! be: born of death!
             you've had your say / your sway:
my turn!
                ***** with anvil!
               you ******* pederasts!
                    **** glory! i just want to love
a woman... but... seeing clearly...
you people are making finding a woman...
a lot more difficult! ****-jobs of the dodo-project!
i'm retiring from outright verbiose
momentum... that's it...
                      i stroke my beard...
i cushion a feels for ****** of a woman...
the end... that's the *******: the end...
                          time's a tired type.

you can be pardoned the stance of denial
having succumbed to the quiet life
of a village, you can you can
and thrice, you can...
odd, the term public intellectual,
in anglo-spreschen that translates into
a flogging...
                 as many testify:
   an ice rink smoothness in the head,
a jagged terrain with no
sophist in sight,
akin to the mathematician,
as most are, terrible at arithmetic,
the sophist will not be a thinker,
as much as a thinker will not be a rhetorician...
rule of thumb, there is only a persuasion
of one to allow an ethical gravitation
toward a dissociative freedom,
of, rather than as: will...
                 you can be allowed denial
because you have lost the benefit
of the doubt...
                    in that denial can only be
reigned in like a blind horse attached
to a mill grinding wheat into flour walking
"blind" circles, until the trenches
von Ypres are mapped out...
        doubt at least is the thinking man's
equivalent of love...
     outright denial, if not spoken
from the remnants of an agricultural
situ?  what motivates a blind bulk
of beef that's a bull to charge?
   far beyond paying Charon...
how would have they fared,
if they placed a coin of transcendental
value, the alchemical riddle in coin,
worth iron a % of gold etc.,
if they placed but one coin
   on the tongue of the one about
to become a carrive pigeon of 21grams?
i might be a drunk,
but I cherish my valour in terms of
keeping sentiments, rather than
that germanic plague of the mind
better known as nostalgia,
or rather, amnesia en masse.
                           shouldn't have reached
for the 'igher tier before unerstanding
the natives' take on: słowo...
       słowianin...
           pro populus per populus
    ex unus non pro unus...
   because how much of the practice
of jurisprudence hangs on a libra
balancing the pose of Atlas
       and the paranoia of having
Democles sword hanging by a single
hair of a horse's mame?
          much of modern law is a circus,
whatever antonym or whatever synonym,
no matter how many laws are passed,
to make example,
     jurisprudence has a fickle, *****
of a lover, the thesaurus...
          a juggling act, since they know,
leeches that they are,
    they juggle, like clowns
hiding behind sand dunes while a deity
erects mountains...
      most of human law is best surmised
by the use of the thesaurus...
what they might call a: "technicality",
I call,
        recyclable verbiage of leftover
rhetoric, as lawyers usually do,
catching sight of a sleeping judge's
vocabulary easing into forgetfulness...
most of human law passes via
toying with a thesaurus...
                   nothing more
         than muddled rhetoric...
     or rather... reaching into the subconscious,
herding a flock of sheep / jury...
and no, i absolve myself from
a dream world escapism,
   ****** dreams.,,,
looked elsewhere...
                        quantum
mechanics, artificial intelligence
and solipsism...
       but of course,  on the atomic level...
the electron when observed...
  behaves like so:
   and when "unobserved" behaves like so:
god I love the idea of being
fudge packed on top of a can of sardines
among the notables...
              the body unlined to youth
and a marked concern for flesh
through fire to ash...
    reincarnation or recycling?
     when res cogitans
or simply res per se, came across
the anti-narcissus (for the love
of french intellectualism,
where public, doesn't exactly mean:
to be flogged) - i.e. when res cogitans
came across re- cogito...
               that atomic cameo prompt of:
again! think! yoga classes,
self-help guru lambasting schnell...
     a firework set off in a clenched hand...
a firework set off in an open palm...
          i only write because what I write
I could never utilise in the everyday:
formal, or informal interaction...
          in the cinematic variant concerning
Rome... Rome was but a whisper,
if it was more than a whisper,
   it would vanish, into thin air...
             well...
so much for genes turning into memes...
with the current affair of freedoms of speech,
we live in times of cuckoo memes,
the so-called activists, defenders of freedom
of speech? hardly any of them
are convincing to suggest the last
bastion of refraining from speaking...
none show cognitive claustrophobia...
i'll speak, when I will exhaust thinking...
but as it stands...
     a bunch of ******* cuckoos...
passing on their cuckoo memes.

the pre anglo-saxon england:
this arthurian myths of:
   some celtic bride and some leftover
legionnaire regaining status:
or gaining status -

pre anglo-saxon england:
oh god... that cocktail of celts and
the welsh...
well: it's anglo-saxon england
that entertained the vikings...
and later the vikings that settled
in northern france...

the monstrous export of
the anglo-saxon republican export
from the h'american colonies...
a strict work ethic...
work hard...
em... how hard can you work
in an environment of
window-dressing...
of being a cat-walk exemplar...
work hard...
stacking supermarket shelves?
can you turn bulging machine
having:
the capacity for unforgiveable
spontaneity:
i figured: a poem a day
keeps the psychiatrist away:

the apples are rotting...
the bears are getting drunk on them...
staggering around senseless seem-like
in a cider tango...

a work ethic... where... mostly...
the ethic of work is: dasein -
a mere being there...
a presence of something that
doesn't discount the rubric of:
the long-stretch of time...
mannequins at work...
staging a cul de sac coup d'etat -
work ethic...
after a while competing
with machinery:
in a thespian despotism
and a d.j. roulette is not enough
for: me to spew rhyme after rhyme...

i would hardly want to disgrace
anyone at work...
lucky for me a dream i had
only yesterday:
i was chased by a faceless throng
of people who wanted
me to stand on a stage...
and persuade the "less initiated"
with new testament jargon:
i was invited to become
the last conventional:
the confidence man: an orator...

not a politician... as such -
not a rhetorician... not lying for
a purpose: more... lying for lying per se...
i rarely dream where i can bring
back images of the dream...

i honestly don't know what
the "whiteness" argument is with these
critical-race theorists...
these neo-marxists...
i latched / i eavesdropped on a conversation
and i'm: precisely here:
nowhere...

      work efficiency: baking too much
bread... what is... "work"...
it's certainly not something as
crystal clear as...
sitting through a le mans' episode
of 24h within the confines
of the marathons of a football match...

snooker nears the concern for
the spectator -
          
  but i'm just eavesdropping -
   i can't buy the new left from the west...
      there's just too much idiosynchronicity
that pulling it apart:
i want the ride on the roulette -
rotondo - ferris-wheel -
i just can't buy western socialism:
it's pretend hive for a season
mentality...
      a whim a vogue:
                 a fly rattling the purpose
of space abstracted to its erracting
flight confined to a cube...

i'm hardly: well... how doesn't it feel
being mistook for a german or a swede
in england...
then again only copper-skins
on edgware road selling quran pamphlets
asked me whether i was german...

i must say: i didn't mind that...
if they suppose i was russian...
i might have minded that...
               i am always this little boring
mr. incognito a retail
of non grata -
          my poverty of history:
i'll ***** myself around the world
never making it to grand h'america...
in england i'll...
honest to god:
gladly scoff the battered cod
and the chips come a friday...

          i don't need to see the sea:
ha: on the continent people had
to plan for summer and for trains
and transit... to... "get 'em away from
the mountains": no camping freaks
among them... lazing on the beaches
until the sun might turn into
crab-mouths nibbling on them...

come on though...
oysters?! that semi-solid sponge of
goo and glue managed to earn...
itself a rolling-pin's worth
of a shell...
well... the human brain is no better:
considering that it was hijacked
by a mushroom... come
the post-aquatic process
of redefining standing-up straight...

perhaps i own my bedroom:
this little guise for the world to understand:
but then one cat if attempting
to sleep in my bed
and the other in the armchair:
while i'm sitting reading
the pickwick papers
sitting against a cold radiator -

she doesn't like me teasing her hind
near: what is her tail:
my imaginary coccyx and her
cranium 69 psalm...
she harks at me...
she butchers me with boxing gloves:
i am expecting
******* sized up to mosquito replicas...
she draws blood from the index...
i smear the drawing of
blood onto her furry nose...

i was too young to have fallen
for such a love of ***
that would never translate
itself into a "love" that could
have us: find each other...
pairing and piling up with
a glad tiding of responsibilities...
i still remember
this "other" one as she took
me to a party just before
bloc party arrived
and a girl might inquire me
as to why i wore
a eisen-kreuz t-shirt...

               it must be self-explanatory:
i have yet to live the unforget-
-able life...
this colt this Abel this leisure of activity:
when pitiable Cain has to wade
through the tsunami of...
the roman gentleman:
forever out of context:
      there's some "inevitable" and there's
some "traditionalism"
       and there's PREJUDICE
against occupations requiring manual
labour: these befitting slaves...
mind you: retail trades have
come through the aeon as...
devoid of criticism or allowing
a self-awareness...
      
concerning now i am no high-brow
thinker:
i am ashamed to "think" to put
this fudge-packing to paper...
wow! no paper!
pixel digits of beelzebub's voyeurism...
i find my agony in
that: physical labour needs
to find its detail:
i can't find escape in the per
se of poetry from long ago...

i need to rise up i need to rise
with aa riddle: to riddle the princesses
with my own lost joy, joke & rhyme...
butchers' pressures for
*******...
the detailed art of the inconvenient
**** stressed with:
ghosts macabre:
if the niqab was addressed
by some variation of: Coco Chanel:
the long white 'un...

i'd love to see a niqab paraded
in white...
               i was the con-stipated...
i was the con-findance artist being
chased by a face clot of bass riddling base?
who's o.k. who's not this new:
pristine vogue of perfect?
my shattered little blessed purpose
insignia of g'aah g'aah:
better: blah?
no reiteration within the confines
of nervousness -
i will not seek any variation
of new york...
i will not make conquest
of coastline h'america...
give me my mundane suppose
euorpa and
some ******* mediocre "supposed"
teasing anti-adventure fly-over...
grey-the-grit-grey-first-born...

i the summoned echo of Abel...
while Cain has his pop-tarts
in the h'american
celebration of serial killers...
and: mother siberia welcomes!
oh god... who needs them shackled
up... let's just drop them...
into a geography that might
expand their minds!
wouldn't it be... fair?
no new africa this new Sib?!

it would account for the moon-goal:
ha! mongrel / 'ongol...
very funny: as english always is...
when it can be tested
with phoneticism...
and a dickensian sam weller's: gadanie:
spreschen...
best kept patriotic: nervous angle...
no new blue: all old blanche... ha ha...
nervous ******* twinkle...
borrowed bliss... no north 19th century...
ha ha...

  but it's still a chapter or two where:
the dickensian narrative sort of:
left me: as it left him...
just pass the time...
as every novel does:
line the lineage...
mould - just enough dough
or words for the readers
to: ahem... "mishap"
a tumbleweed moment...

execution of the antithesis of
"buddhist" posturing:
not finding a cushion to not think...
read a book in an iron maiden
fixation:
play the freely available russian...
i will never come across
the intricacies of h'america from
a postcard...
i will never make it to iowa:
iowa per se...
outside of the federal export
narrative of a myth of a
nation-project...

   i want to see the sort of
h'america the rest of the coastline
decided to **** on...
but i've already seen st. petersburg
from the perspective of:
great *** and no one ever wanted
to listen to bob dylan...
there was a necessary stipend
of reading a bulgakov...
         which i did...
          while moscow and metallica was...
let's just forget it:
i find the most pristine ideal
of a day...
come my little solo rummaging
of the woods come the raj spices
of autumn...
come these ancient woods
that will never borrow acorns...

i went back a side-step back
toward the ***** of abraham marx -
and i came back:
trojan projects:
mass graves of Ypres:
deserved by the germans...
have these mass graves...
but a solitary statue of...
at least the achilles heel of "st." michael...
will you not dare to claim
the laughter of Ares?
then succumb to a "saint" and michael...

**** your incongruity -
i tend to make an event of walking out
from this house
with an apple in tow...
and like some philosopher...
leaving enough flesh prior to the core...
before ackowledging
the possibility of the magic
trick being towed...

i can eat the whole apple and
there's no cider coming from the seeds...
write the metaphor of the bible
anew:
apples are not new to the riddled east...

ah! ah! ah ha ha ha ha ha!
the riddled east!
give 'em the nocturnal flesh
of a phlegm compact fig...
  give them the dates...
the oranges... the lemons...
         who was moses to give them
the apple?
last time i heard apples originated
in kazakh territory:
which was picked up
with the mongol migration...
along with the beijing plethora
of dumplings...
  
england is still far far away...
ready to make it's surf exploration first...
thirst for moon in north h'america...
first come first served:
last time i heard:
iceland didn't beat them...
because... ha!              ah ha ha ha!

first i played a recorder...
cheap plastic...
no... there was no mention of a flute...
i was english i was i never never...
but it's not like...
i had the vantage point...
of the english...
since no one really wanted
to live on iceland...
england prior to the anglo-saxons...
yes... these:
leftover peoples: troll...

ich muss "troll"...
      shwemme-affe-contra-hund:
scheissegrubestapelregalneu!
   ich: ja... westen bankrottberliner:
mein ebenfalls: kaiserbrötchen!

one might simply tire of pandering
to the germans...
one simply can...
as one might excuse oneself to teasing
the mongols: via the russians...
so... it's a no man's land...
through and through...

   i.e. where's what middle with
the middle of the east
that's also: "york" and the yacht and
the islamic mystics: rumi from afghanistan from
the 13th century or otherwise...
the senior draft?
no... solipsism adventure: primo!
the bangladeshi are slaves
when cicero had to speak: proper...
necromancy for the believe-ability
of the existence of arabs...
camel jockeys...
            the nobel routine handlers...
shadow rubric oopses -

there is not need for a coupling for
communism with Jainism -
when the doggy-mom does her bit
and the thief from Camden Town
does his: leash to lynch...
empires the metaphors:
the peoples the jack 'o' cracks:
pancakes... and the littering
to street with...
all thoe romanian / bulgarian
****** you didn't ****...
because ****'s son slashed the broker
on the northern duaghter
you...   hindered...
  stroked bloke & towed
fiddled barrels...
   like some "ilford"...
          
the "solution" is...
all tongues but no spanners...
the "solution" is...
all tongues but hammers...
              my best inclined: fugitive
of a body... this fetish toad-ape
a colour figurative
of imitating traffic heed...

my best blotched narcoleptic
blond-Fe....
ironing suitor...
    ape gesticulating
supposed applause...
for the audience to cwy away
an about: a'goo...

               cicero minded: might have...
"slaves" take up the deeds of
aesops in the deeds of the row-men...
or the same-ethno-minded:
belittled brain-custrd-fudgings...
A                           A                       A
my exploited nuo lambda...

i wriggle with a rare
rage most impossible...
i tinge these letters:
the spice list for a karma sutra
of
outdates the necessities
of the new testament as:
any new sort of investment:

didn't you know?
the serenity of a composition...
bach will never ride
a donkey:
among the four horsemen...
there was one with death: implicit...
towing a donkey... riding: slow...
and it's not that i might make
bach pop: or propping up...
i have no romance with
some borrowing of
"amore" of italy:
               pizza pardons?!
i quite like the tenderness
of the "in-between-bits" of
liver... stendhal!
the rubric details:
                         i oppose a suggestion
that something could be claimed
to make monstrosity
of sketching forward this...
ahem... modern...
man...

"we": i found it very much necessary
for the modern man to talk
this borrowing from nuance...
this bowing-down
burrowing:
thorough.. through...
my long lost asp and bulgar...
the sort of exotica that
the british never tasted:
it was Bulgaria that was not...
not ever... Haiti...
and because of... what?
white's what?

       middle of "my" jerusalem?
i can't fathom a... "middle yeast"...
from a region that doesn't
need beer...
ergo and "ergo"...
the riddled east...
troll the overt-simplification...
that let's me toll up stupid
and there's no necessary
i.q. quest -
yes.... the pay-back for
toying with both tourist
and the cricket teams / themes...

my last middle...
it's an yeast! a brain-borrow:
born bread-winner"
riddled "eat"!
oh ****...       tiny tony
and that major SHA-SHA!

isn't writing this, "brand new" ,
  and shiny red button
that flags up, for delay...
   where h.p. sauce
means just that:
houses of parliament
on your full english?
no?
   here's a word play -

                                            dasein "vs."
                                                        sein da...

anti-global rhetoric,
journalistic class
of... whatever you call them...
branded leeches,
propagandists, etc.,

            dasein:
which probably invokes
an english innovative
of: there's being...

                   no **** sherlock!
come again, though...

              being, there...

ah!
that big sigh of "relief"
             last time i checked there
were no objective counter-measures
to cipher the journalistic
bollcoks either "being" or,
to be frank, either "a": "there"...

i might be wrong about
the paella from madrid...
but i'm not from madrid",
or anywhere close to "it"...
am i?

                  if games is all you want...
well, come on over,
play my one...
  i'm as clueless as you are:
i don't know the rules...
let's figure it out between us...
savvy?
tom hanks did the great
job of playing the idiot...
the more i drink,
the more i envision myself
strapped to the comforts
of a seat provided by a dentistry
practitioner...
schmiles all round...

         it's one thing to ****
up the german,
and another to inherit its ****
origins...
  i quiet like the latter...
given the anglican interlude
of ('s) - that possessive article /
multiplier essence...

  of whatever
*diedunkelzungehabenzusagen...
you want to study
chemistry...
might as well read some deutsche...
2, 4-dinitrophenylhydrazine:
looks pretty much sterile
(i.e. german)...
     now we can begin the surgery...
(the dark tongue had to say)...
woops came the *******
in a bull-strap and boxing technique
practice tangle... ha ha.

i mean it thought:
da-sein...
                      da-       there
sein-        being
           and the minor english revision:
there's being...
                beside the german
    existentialists...
the french ones should get it:
less... concern... presence...
now? borrowed from the 20th
century goliath centurions?
eh...
                 "it's", whatever "it" it is,
is merely "there"...
  but rather: it's there...
whatever copernican sense that makes...

but me, i'm more interested in:
sein-da...
                         the whole journalistic
contra to poetics,
akin to the philosophical
contra to, poetics...
               the whole "being", "there"...
i like that...
i like that a lot...
   i think i'll make that my fetish...
beginning with:
once you forget about
sharpening knifes...
you end up thinking about
the blutness of a hammer
and, subsequently,
the bluntness of the nailhead
                            (nagelkopf)...

well... if heidegger and nietzsche
were all about "philosophißing"
with a hammer...
      might i add: you'll still be required
a nail;
and if i'm not the nail:
they're no more a hammer
than as much as nothing more
than a ******* toothpick;
now hammer this nail in
with a toothpick...
   and all things aside: good luck.

and for all its worth,
philosophy, logic...
blah-blah blah-blah blah-blah-blah-blah...
but philosophy sometimes
deviates from the mundane
ask of logic,
and tickles the presence
of poetics,
after all...
you can't exactly attack
a poet and a rhetorician
of politics simultaneously...

i.e. heidegger's hammer?
it's a metaphor...
describing the possibility
of two construction site
labourers being able
to discuss philosophical topics
while also making their
round of the routine...
    **** me... it's come to this...
asking whether two gym bros
can discuss philosophy
while pumping iron?
the same "menial" task
attached at the chimera hip
of these siamese twins...
           but not really...
          
   the labourers have hope....
gym bros?
                  not exactly...
i personally found more intelligence
in the proper meat-heads...
in a slipknot moshpit
than in these...
            pump-iron-mosher-non-clue;
or whatever the hell
is "trendy" come tomorrow.

only the english are applied to this "sentiment",
well, let's call it an honest observation:
only the english are capable
of making philosophy a pompous endeavour,
i guess that's because they are
pompousness best exemplified -
     they always considered themselves
the belly-buttons of the world,
far beyond the talk of hemispheres,
their's was always the greenwich meridian:
here is my, year 0.
              why should philosophy ever
become a pompous endeavour?
       was it ever?
                only the english could think
of philosophy as a pompous endeavour,
but there's nothing pretentious hinged on
the shoulders of philosophy...
   philosophy at best, is idiotic...
          or at least: the highest form of acting,
the sort of acting that says:
well... it's hard to play a mr. bean,
it would be much easier to play someone
with at least three dimensions,
   akin to a blackadder - cunning and
intelligence you can anticipate and play
with... but idiocy or faking it, well,
that's a hard gig to pull off...
                         since that sort of comic idiocy
is anticipating you, like a god
before an altar... rather than you investing
time & effort into prescribing the populace
with its exitence, staged.
          it's always harder to play
the idiot, than it is to play the manipulative
member of an intelligentsia...
in summary, two equations:
if sophistry = the study & pratice of rhetoric
then philosophy = the study & practice of dialectic(s);
i'd say it's harder to play the idiot
than it is to play the grand "intelligent"
rhetorician...
         in the latter you really have to try,
in the former (example) -
   the idea toward such a will is to avoid
trying... faking becomes
   more tiresome than actually trying;
ah yes, in conclusion:
     dla boga ból,
      dla diabła: nuda
    (for god, pain,
               for the devil: boredom).

either... desperately seek constipation
         via
pretend (ing) to spill more ink
than - by any stretch of the imagination /
by a needle ***** too - blood
given: it's not exactly paper that's
wasted...
                times are dire...
we need toilet paper
                               and not newspapers:
or at least let's pretend
we would like some coal -
   otherwise this neon insomnia will
bury me in a brrr of brittle cold...
                      but that's just that...
nothing new to write so a morning
with a ms. amherst of sorts -
             as you do... when nothing's new...
so as i see it...
i either sit here and waste a perfectly
good wintry morning...
pretending to ooze out an aflation...
   clearly i'm not: brain-fudge-fidgety
yes... custard for thought and
oozing nuggety gravy too, yes...
          all that's missing is a rubric /
slanting linear of some verbiage
baggage (un)like a rhetorician invoking
tautology...
   the air should be refreshing
since it rained all night...
       yes... come to think of it...
these legs will give me more ease
by being put to use than these fingers -
i should have them broken
and this "piano" dropped on
  a fat head of a cow - or something of
the sort...
besides... from the white tower
of havering-atte-bower...
        to that luminous tower past chigwell
i'm guessing in the direction of woodford
or i suppose wanstead...
but no... it couldn't be the galleon &
heronwood hospital...
   but it just might...
               a little / more an odd pilgrimage
to... circa 1999's summer
with the flooding of memory of "someone"...
at least a walk that will span
the horizon of what i can see...
  mind you...
       there's something else...
i don't know why i'm invoking a direct
addressee with these words...
   mind i... at first the name seemed appropriate...
that these were: aspen trees...
they weren't aspen... they're not...
and sure as **** i know what an acorn is...
and an acorn nor an oak they ain't either...
unless you were to walk
down... parkway just by Raphael Park...
on the corner...
   this contender to...
   sierra redwoods...
                        yep... north h'american big
trees...
          sequoias...
   in havering-county park...
         oh i'm guessing circa two dozen...
           i even hoped to stick a jelly-gum
to a piece of paper and onto each of these
trees to give them quasi nicks'...
sequoias... in essex, england...
               i'm not mistaken
                               but still dumbfounded
one of those 'huh?!' moments that's
beside awe: awe is not necessary...
              that much is certain...
   this had to be written anything had
to be written and better still no ink no paper
just enough electricity to
compete with a coffee-mill's worth
of 3 cups / and the kettle that boiled
three cups of water...
   come to think of it... probably less.

it only requires about two drinks to get
through the internet alt. media
commentators...
after that... my head starts to feel like
a balloon... which pops...
           and then i'm like:
       **** it... i'm not wasting ol' Jack
on this...
                evidently i'm being force fed
some sort of agenda...
and i can't waste a good bottle
of the marquees de bourbon on these
videos... total screen time?
   roughly 30 minutes...
        then i crank the volume up...
put on a decent playlist and start doing
my rhythmic nodding to a song...
sometimes turning my body into
a drumming machine...
   and...
        look out the window...
mesmerized by the horizon...
the line of trees of the forest i sometimes
go into at night...
       not exactly bothered by
the distance... but looking at something
far away helps me to think,
well... "think": more like my mind
turning in a mouth that feeds on an abyss...
then onto the nearby brick walls
for... whatever reason i think is
needed to justify paying for art...
  hell... you don't want to look at a painting,
pay for it? here's a brick wall...
          again: the genius of polyester...
  how... it repels rain...
   walked out with a dry t-shirt....
   came back with a dry t-shirt...
   took a break at the bus-stop to smoke
a cigarette and finish my beer...
was honked by a white van passing by..
evidently a man did the...
            thumb pressing on the ring and
middle fingers curled,
with the index and pinky finger extended...
i was once mistook for a Richard...
      guess i must have done something
right...
   and when the music comes on?
screen time? 5 minutes over a span of
5 hours...
  to mobile phone...
no presence on any dating app.
               facebook... yeah...
but it was a university thing in the beginning...
you needed a university based
email account...
               i was...
    s0458467@sms.ed.ac.uk
    student no. 458,467...
this is how you originally could log into
facebook, set up an account...
you needed a university email...
               before the firm expanded...
how the hell was i supposed to know
that people would feel like they do,
now... about the firm's expansion,
extending to +13 age restrictions...
   at the time, 11 years ago when the website
arrived by word of mouth to
these isles... everyone was in on it...
i have to say...
                      it was a good decision
to delete my past...
         clingy... thistle...
           i'll cling to the past i chose to cling
to... and that's still about 10 really
important memories for me to keep...
the internet...
a great place to bypass editors and
publishers...
                        making videos was never
on the cards...
       the whole passive ingestion...
whereby you can do two things at once...
point being...
   you can't exactly listen to a video
commentary and listen to music...
so i chose writing...
     because you can then listen to music...
and that's far better than
making videos...
      since... i gather: music out-competes
this video commentators...
and how all the more non-intrusive
a piece of writing is...
                   plus... you don't hear my voice:
you hear your own;
and as someone once accused me of,
in terms of: liking the sound of my own voice...
not at all...
                 i'm hardly the rhetorician,
the Ciceroesque orator...
   i'm no Churchill...
                           and god forbid that i become
one... ah... ancient Rome...
                 philosophy only emerged
with Marcus Aurelius, the stoic...
   otherwise ancient Rome has no known
philosophers, only sophists,
akin to Seneca and Cicero...
   i honestly can't think of any Roman
philosopher... not one.

idle hands fit for the devil to do his bidding...
perhaps i'll write some more
so more and the devil will come to the fore...
he might just come with
smoke and mirrors: hardly any fire...
smoke and mirrors: hardly any fire...
he might just come with
smoke & mirrors to the fore...
who wouldn't have forgotten
to shave or... for that matter: bring some
sulphuric stink and some: farting-ire...

so i've just changed my bicycle tyre...
yep... i've just change my bicycle
tyre and the inner tube too...
so i've just changed my bicycle tyre
and the inner tube too...
and... well: how mighty these idle
hands now seem...
well: how mighty these idle hands now
seem...

i've saved up about 20 quid's worth
of someone's labour...
but i've also spent us much...
on the necessary parts...

but... but... it's so much more...
when you can cook your own curry
instead of falling back on an Indian take-away...
when you can cook your own curry
instead of falling back on an Indian take-away...
pizzas too: dough with yeast:
grows it grows: it makes it sing!
hey, just listen: jovial fat man sings...
the yeast will make the flour
the sugar, water & a pinch of salt
rise! rise! rise!

- if it's not the pied piper taking the rats
out of town...
it's this best only imagined:
jovial fat man making the yeast
           rise...
he might even:
   play along with king  Solomon's con-tem-
                                                    +            -plation
of the ant... busy yeast busy ants:
the jovial fat man sang
and up up: the dough rose!

throw me a black cardamom grenade!
throw me a black cardamom grenade!
i'll forever make this work:

i have: an arsenal of Indian spices
that could compete with
the Russian or the US stockpile of
nukes...
i have: an arsenal of Indian spices
that could compete with the Russian &
the US stockpile of nukes...

knock knock: who isn't there:
knock knock... the echo... the echo isn't there...
keep up: lyrics... repeat repeat to
keep the rhythm: pink-oi(nk)-poignant...
any blessed fate of deep-fried onion
rings...
one two one two: the same sound
of a rubber ball against a brick wall...
jesus take one: on a cross...
take two on a horse...
jesus dying an old man...
hey! Zeus! you were him too?!

any idiot is supposed to ride a donkey
byway of: back a warding off...

oh look... lyricism was going to swell...
i was almost: "grifting"?
well... good luck writing lyrics
for anything beside
the one time Beethoven managed to write
the music for the lyrics...

not originally Friedrich Schiller's...
whatever the dispute was...
one was deaf... the other blind?

ode to "freedom": what which i might
enjoy last: what's leftover...
what i can have while the forerunners
have exhausted...
and will never find my own...

i was never good at keeping it:
"geometrically": compact...
i was always found to digress even when
i were to finish something with
a promise for lyrics:
i would devolve the lyrics into...
a "word salad" narrative...
all the better... i'm not rhetorician...
i'm not journalists...
if i haven't made any more from my
work...
then... obviously i'm no Salvatore Garau
who just auctioned a $18,300 sculpture...

what's the point of money: if... you don't
want to spend it?

sentiments for all those hijab-clad girls...
when a common reaction comes in the form:
there's... a hair... in my soup...
there's a hair in my soup!
almost akin to: there are some nail-clippings
in my soup... there's a fly in my champagne flute!
in defence of hair?
really... that's all there was: to begin with?
men would never be allowed to grow their hair
long? they would all be bald?
why is it a defence of hair...
a man can shave his head
and present himself with a bald head:
but a goat's beard...

em... there's a hair in my soup?
ugh! the immediate response...
someone was toying with their *****...
there's a nail-clipping...
it's one thing: and i've seen it:
muslim girls donning white-hijabs
in the street... fair enough...
Japan is an island... they're experiencing
record high-levels of... heat... humidity...
England is an island...
we share the same longitude... platitude...

it's a ******* island...
why is having "hair" somehow deemed as
"****"? what's this outdated model
to do with, herr moi?!
hair... what if i'm into shortcut pixie-dream
girl memorabilia?
what if i want to be a man:
and have long hair while i want
her to be short-cut?
Woad princess of the raven hairs: clipped
to a crew-cut... with feathers of tease
ruining my balance as i regroup?!

come to think of it...
what are these two jugs of the female ****...
but only two nibbles: of *******?
why can't i start imagining...
the cow's sack of the mono-***
with multiple *******?
if everything is to made to blatantly:
******* apparent!

i seriously turn into a quasi-paedo
when watching the gymnastics...
then again i correct myself:
i like to stand corrected...
give me anything voluptuous...
fully grown: a mandible beauty of the body...
stash the used-parts...
i'll be happy to watch rust overgrow them...

i've ****** a ****** once...
never... ever... again...
i've seen the mirror imposed...
three incisions into my body with a "***** worthy"
clarification of a knife...
on the right side: just above my collar-bone...
under my right-arm-pit...
where the tętno protrudes... pulse...
and one smooth stroke into the neck...

then to finish it all off...
somewhere in the confiscates of the abdominal
region...
by now... i'm best teasing...
in my 35 years lived...
claiming a marathon riddled with
dementia and bad to worse teeth
aged 70: life expectancy doesn't really
bother me:
i've seen what old age does...
it does very little to proof-read past
deeds with a substance of immunity
from the harrowing...

for those that might mind:
death of glorious relief!
however the life was spent...
either is the exercise of the body...
or the exercise of the mind:
whether in the limelight or
whether in the footnotes ...

it might just rain... while i take to the field...
i'm hardly going to yield a harvest
from it: perhaps an odd thought...
but what's a "thought" these days?
it's not a moral-ought-i nor
a moral-ought-i-not...
i think for a something of a burden:
when once i thought for a cogito-per-se...
i thought for the sake of thinking...
there was no "ingenious" inversion"
ascribed to Nietzsche that i might:
be... therefore to think: a machine of thinking?

i don't think Descartes would allow
himself to be justified: i exist in order
to (merely) think...
he just posited: oh... i suppose i think...
suppose i am too... towing along...
but Nietzsche had to focus on the: denken: arbeit!

how much can one "think" before:
Descartes would call me from the grave and
tell me to invoke the counter to: res cogitans:
imploring me: mention: res vanus! mention
res vanus! the empty thing...
the sensual creature! the creature
who absorbs cursors! motives... motifs...

****'s sake... sum ergo cogito...
well then... if you are... Nietzsche...
where was your... *******... lightbulb?
same as me... although i find minor concerns
best targeted...
what example? i'm pretending to be deaf...
oh... you know... the vampire of brooklyn...
Albert Fish... Fitsch... sticking needles
into his pelvis before being electrocuted...

philosophers: alias to...
fan-boys spinning narratives of artists...
the subjective-object...
the objective-subject... blah blah...
the gymnast who is fudge-packaged body
without the height of a swimmer Olympian...
i must say... beside the women...
the male swimmers still hold the highest
aesthetic for a male body: exemplar...
above every, other sport...

i drink to excess: therefore:
i have a slightness to excess in a "stomach ache"...
what... in between not having
a war to wage... too much competition...
me suckling up to the sleep of
PHENERGAN... no alcohol...
and me drinking some alcohol
and succumbing to some... APAP...
and some anti-inflammatory NAPROXEN...

it's not a fair competition for sucky-sucky...
is... it? it's not a fair competition
when within the confines of: said:
competition... there are so many...
ailing... exemplars of supposed
zenith ambitions...

while i wallow in the crustaceans nibbling...
itch itch some more...
nibble itch... itch some more...
i've learned a lesson of patience that
overcomes all that's...
necessarily... of such strong stock of body...
but with a feeble mind...
thank god i've been patient...
brain as chemical soup...

at what point am i to be excused
not remembering my 20s?!
now?
is this the right time to cash in on the hovering
gimmicks worth of chips & slabs?
a litany of: when i was...
but no one was bothered to
watch?!

what love i had...
what love i could have worshiped...
each letter... each letter guided toward
constructing a word... each word
with each and every punctuation marker...
added marker: with diacritical scrutiny...
will be... aided... with nothing short
of: oh no... no evil... nothing associated
with: d(evil) to do evil...
rather..            malice... irksome... bothersome...
little... fidgety awe...

i want to be something: belittling... nothing:
awe inspiring... i could have been...
once... the world made it obviously:
fair... fair to me...
goodness is ridiculed and waiting for
the slaughter of those having made it to old age...

a daughter will.. estrange herself from her
mother... my mother... my grandmother...
over how my grandmother kept the death
of her father: my grandfather... a secret for almost two
months... while my uncle: her brother: her son...
somehow knew all about the deterioration...
two days prior only i found about him being
subjected to a hospice...

AND ME... REPRODUCE?!
START A FAMILY!
I'VE BEEN TASKED WITH COUNTING
WHAT MARBLES I HAVE LEFT...
I'M TO BIND MYSELF WITH CONCERNS
FOR "HEALTH": THE "MIND":
WHILE ALL THESE SEEMINGLY...
PONTIUS PILATE CRITTERS...
WALK... SCALD-FREE!
DICTATING WHO REQUIRES
THE PSYCHIATRIC BRAIN CHEM-SOUP...
SO THEY CAN KEEP A ******* HARD-ON?!

it would truly require me to...
take the most... freely accessible... nonsense:
*****-nilly solipsist of the bunch
to the slaughter... and they wouldn't even know...

this "poetry": this civilization can die...
die a dog's death...
but it won't die a "dog's" death...
it'll die a death of man...
under the umbrella branch of mulattos...

there's no longer a crucified centre to hold it...
the tide has come...
the fire is gluttonous.... yes...
there's no longer a crucified centre to hold it...
the tide has come...
the fire is gluttonous.

i don't know how these self-help gurus with their videos... managed to... infest my self-d.j. prospects on youtube... oh... wait... youtube was gearing up for creating paid-subscription to compete with spotify... no wonder the algorithm went hell-wire... it stopped behaving like a thesaurus might... there were no new... alternatives... unless of course... some of us remember the need to buy a KERRANG! or a MOJO magazine to find out about... the lesser know... "neglected" artists on the music scene... you thought the music scene was bad... poetry is even worse! - but no... all these self-help gurus: it's like the hell i was told to inhabit for not buying any of their literature... i'll listen... eagerly... but will i take any advice? it's not a rhetorical suspense coupled with "probably": it's an outright negation: no...

take this example... some self-help guru: perhaps a gym bro or... whatever...
starts reading an article akin to:
'we live in a time where lust is glamourized and (true) love is made out to be shameful and boring...'
hence the brackets... is truth more of a noun...
or merely an adjective...
true-love... compounded...
no... that's conflated...
it's boring to tell the truth...
and that's also coupling with the alias: boring...
no... telling the truth is ineffectual...
lies are: weaving strands...
truth is: gravity...
                        people who don't escape into
reading or writing fiction prefer to tell lies...
what about my statuary rights
as a person concerned with...
the guarantee of a product...
i heard that the manufacturer provides...
a one year guarantee on the bicycle tyres...
but the seller steps in...
defending the manufacturer...
not the buyer... moi...
the manufacturer will be forced to answer:
i'm just left with a "smug":
oh... we're replace your tube: inflate it...
we won't charge you for it...
but we've seen worse tyres...
what... the ****?
and this world is atheistically: enough?!
if you're a rhetorician...
this world isn't enough:
this world is the least of all possible worlds!
it's a ******* primer!
that some god almighty... whether
he be demanded the ******* camel-jockeys
to take a critique of pork seriously:
pork as leather as shoe:
or belt...
  now we're talking...

- aside... what about the nobility of swans?
they are... noble... those creatures...
aren't they?
no talk of a duck harem imitating chimps...
the swans are noble because there's
a concept of a widow / widower swan...
how such animals pair...
without thumbs to stress
the posit of hammer or a... ******* igloo!

of the past two hours i've been "debating" with myself
the agony of a Tosca ****: opera in three parts:
freeing a ****...
a quasi-constipation:
not exactly high-and-mighty:
instagram me drinking champagne on a yacht
in Monte Carlo...
to-and-fro... first sitting the magnum opus...
second sitting... third...
Cheerio shrapnel...
fool you fool me... who's the fool all the better?
absolutely tortured by a ****...
at one point:
my **** started yawning some acid...
i treated it with some mint-caress fluid
of a tendering wipe...

the story goes...
the nobility of swans... coupling...
better me... not coupled to fakery:
i will not listen to the advice presented:
it's entertainment alone:
there's nothing practical about it...

- it's hard to find a meaning of life:
if, that's all there's to it:
meaning, counter: momentum alternative:
will... who cares about it being "FWEE"
at this point: a binding contract that
defaces death as a waiting game:
it's hard to find a meaning in life
when you only arrive at the crumbs:
by the end of the day that stretches
into the night...
if it's not come the genesis of day:
the zenith...
these meagre words come the 2am slot:
the nadir... are as "important" as they are...
hardly impotent: more... crazed raw
akin to the croaking of the crow
or the laughter of a fox...
because... in England... there are no wolves
to awoooooooooo!
we are best left to what remains...
bark-my-finicky-dance-of-moon-finicky:
clock tick-tock...
speak to me of wonderous cre-ah-tures...
akin to Walruses....
many fanged and -  sabertooth tiger
didn't take it up with the seas?!
here's a moustache to prove:
a family of mice living well inside of it...
like a bunch of Hebrews come
the expulsions of the people
from their Tenements...

the old maxim:
our people and the tenements...
your people: and the streets!
wasze ulice... nasze kamienice!

i might be the first to thirst bemoaning
the: export of the Jewry from Europe...
if i were anyhow Russian:
i'd be almost intact...
thank **** i'm not Russian:
but i'm certainly not glad
for the import of the gladly summarising
ladies of... she imposed an African
import of living ******...
i forget about anger about this point:
of cutting the mustard...
i'm more interested in horseradish
to begin with...
i have a maine **** with bramble seeds
and as i bite into his fur to get them
out; entertainment for the whole
worth of night...

Greetings reader from a cross between an aging seventy inch long (ringing ding ****) haired pencil necked geek and a Norwegian bachelor farmer wannabe; meaning yours truly actually a virtually married Pennsylvania man, who crossed his sixty fifth year young threshold on January thirteenth 2024, nevertheless despite rancor from the missus who frowns on me favoring female for acquaintanceship/friendship ideally while taking a ride On The Good Ship Lollipop.

if nothing else germinated
adult language affections
inexplicable tummy why
(approximately three quarters
of my lxiv roy hull orbits ago),
I can still vividly recall
names of girls from mud
trickle hull hating as a Methacton
High School graduate,
plus the two semesters completed
at Montgomery County Community College,
which diploma worth less than
the paper certifying completion
of requisite credits.

Unbeknownst tummy if
(Susan Bishop, Cheryl Hahn,
Judy Jacobs, Donna Keckley,
Fay Landis, Sandra Ray,
Julia Ward, and a handful of others)
gleaned any hint that an intense desire
shutter flying within thy solar plexus
to blurt (in a bumbling fashion)
even a feeble hello
dogged each day of classes.

Nothing about this then
awkward, blimey clammy, dorky,
edgy, friggin gawky, *****, ipsy,
jumpy, kooky, loony, moody, nerdy,
okay, plenti quirky, ratty, sulky,
timidly undersized very withdrawn,
xpn yankee Zeusian.

If familiar during my prime numbered days,
with either powder milk biscuits
(which according to Garrison Keillor -
gives shy people the courage
to get up and do ***** deeds
done dirt cheap (in honor
of the late Malcolm Young,
the pulse of AC/DC),
or raw bits, and additionally
adroit crafting, expostulating
gross iniquities keeping maidens
overly questing regarding taming
uber vibrant ***** wonka
your all time cerebrally enlightened,
guy initially kindling manifold
oppressed quaking ****** undulations
wracking yawping aspiring
corpus dictionary epicurean.

Yes, that tis quite a mouthful,
but then this ardent devotee, gamboling
jousting literary nonsensical
philosophical reader, tenderly tinder
verizon wormy yakking arboreal
cloven earmarked, graciously intelligent
kibitzer, modest opportunistic
questioning statecraft,
unpretentiously warbling bupkis.

Though verb boss this poet manque
doth strive tubby re: noun,
or at the least beak comb knighted
among his majesty (HMS) –
cutting (thru the figurative iceberg) crew,
which pronoun smint foments
hostile interjections, whereby
grievance addressed by my
reciting constituent articles comprising
English Language.

As a result of assiduous, copious, exodus,
grammar grappling, inchoate knowledge,
mastery of quirky syntax
underscored unpretentious
versatility with words.

Adverb beal concupiscence endowment
grows ineluctable kickstarting
my obvious quest shunned unfairly
without your adjective choice
entirely granted.

Infinitives key mordant obscures
quasi rhetorician traversing ultimate
vernacular wordsmith zeroing
at becoming catapulted
**** eminently fructified.

Caterwauling causes
champion colleague Collins collision,
collusion, conjunction conspiracy,
demanding expulsion, forthwith
groupie Harris insinuating, juxtaposing,
keeping lowest mediocrity necessitating
one principle question.

Reddit slated tenure unified vicars,
wherein xfinity yielded zing along.

He stomps around
In funny shoes
Maniacal tumults
Bemuse
Presuming his
Illusion’s
Charming
Alter-egos
Not self-harming
Nor alarming
His appearance
Law and order
No adherence
To the standard
Hold your tongue
The venom rhetorician’s
Gun
And still he wields the blade
At play
And shields his pain
So far away
From any castles
Long relinquished
Flames of war
Now long extinguished
Over all extinction
Reigns
Yet microcosmically
Campaigns
To win the favor
Of the haves,
The have-nots
And thee
Anti-class
And still makes time
To show the people
Rags to riches’
Glitchin’ eagle
Free to automate his nation’s
Technological contagion
Watch it promulgate the spaces
Thought once safe  
From other races
Then lay waste
To opposition
Let them live
On one condition
Kingdoms, queens
Must be the means
To mass produce
The God machines

i sat down at the end of the day
having spent it
tending to my garden:

so much emotion is in my stomach
i doubt that i even have
a heart

3.5 grams of marijuana can last
me about a month
and i'm wondering: where was i in my 20s
when i smoked so little
i hear
heavy smokers obliterated
by the discovery of the Stretch of Time
time non-linear not
history
i better: sink feel this:
send those emotions to my *****
my genitals:
kneel and speak with my ***: relax
my ***:

then i think sometimes
i imagine speaking through my ****
rather than my mouth
when i think i sometimes
imagine speaking through my ****
rather than my mouth
because i'm no politician rhetorician
and i'm getting the blues
afraid of myself:
why am i so stone so Sisyphus
why am i so nervy ******
playing an IDLE GAME

games were so different back in the day
of Mario Bros
now there are IDLE games...
you get fed adverts
your pocket sized DEEP BLUE
overheats
and then you have to start hacking
the phone
because there is apparently moisture
in the charging socket
but there isn't

because when you hit ON button
i smoked half a joint
tonight
and i want to write
so i also drank a whiskey...
or two...
no... best keep this Election Night
giggles under shades
i know who's going to win
when in Europe there is the Right
while in England it's: Conservatism
but random people
talked to me on the train about politics
and i was coming home
tired

but beside that: just reading habits:
who can spaghetti monster
and the custard clot Yellow King
of Hapsburg and Lovecraft
an Austrian monstrosity hanging
over the German people

bad habits: like really bad habits:
i have too much on my mind
that even summoning an *** for a mouth
will not do:
now i have three mouths in my head:
bleak Corinthian dynamic
oh jeez:
jazz? maybe:

                                Zukofsky's A
and when i heard that voice
bro: i was over-tell: myself that the silence:
oh those wind chimes bother
me why did we invent them
when not living on islands for most of the time
the voice bothered me
i'll finish the joint when i'll head
to bed:

the best anything is 1/3 bourbon and 2/3
whiskey
i created a mutant spirit: at 40% loading...

i'm scared of myself for not being a worldly man:
an ambitious man
a politician:

democracy is:
when in its infancy as an idea of governing people
by people
why so many loops and snakes and ladders?
i'm not an ambitious man
i have no world demands
although i'm sitting on wealth
and with that comes:
pips of cherries and trees in winter...
and *******: plenty of *******:

while Wimbledon is on
and the Euros
and the elections across Europe
and now England:
how many prime ministers?
elections are called in times of crisis
i saw Cameron, May, Sunak, Liz Trolley...
i saw Blair, Brown and... who?
ambitious men:
i am afraid of myself:
not being an ambitious man:

less but more Harold Norse contemplating
not being a male-man
(ha ha, politico automachine
spell edit, introductory
alliance with "woke" terminology:
old ****: geezer, gas baboon)
because not prone to violence
or appreciative of sports notably football
just mad about poetry

but mirage mirage:
what a combination on ***
and the trans train: of alphabets:

     LINDA DE SOUSA
    with / & WADE WILSON:

scary to think there are even people
there:
on the "other side" of tax collectors
and i've been with ******
and there are people there:

we're so dynamic in our dualism beside
the mind
that there are parallel lives being led
with parallel fates being fed
in the simplest of languages: by one: in one:

i had to escape: become schizophrenic-schizoid:
how?

i'm bilingual so...
backup banning floppy disks in Japan
(if you read the newspapers:
you'll know)
the 3"15            was that the t.n.t. detonative
ascribing ref.?

           i need to write in English but listen
to music in German:
notably folk: folklore bands
Faun: federkleid:

i just need to because otherwise
i can't stomach
the life of the one tongue
and this rabbit rabid ethnicity
based upon
nothing but the tongue:
or two:

now the flood
of memories: subtle:
when i laughed at my mother speaking
English over the telephone:
i was a terrible brat
but today i am old
and older and at least
she's not a language confrontation
of lackey: suite...

the bible and the quran can exist
and... whatever:
but i want to write a contender:
antitoxin...
or toxin:

ah the ambition awakes and i'm delusional
again with my lover...
tub tub... tub tub:
three little finger flickers
then her tasting herself
after i finger her and put my fingers
into her mouth...

but Heidegger became real:
schematics
of external security:
at Wembley: someone was flying
a renegade drone over the south
of the architecture:

FOOTPRINT? my ***...
charlie 1: olympic steps
charlies 2: oh jeez... never heard of
positions 2, 3, 4...
charlies 5: Atlantic Way
Charlies 6: north east staircase
Charlies 7: south east staircase
charlie 8: south east ramp
charlie 9 and charlies 10: gate 3
(with quadrant Romeo)
usually Frenchie: endearing?

charlie 11: zig-zag alley
charlie 12: Spanish steps:

da-sein: concern:

Om om: the Mongol? began winking at me:
did i look panicked?
pan-caked:
i thought i was going to enjoy
ACDC
when they came on: i did:

apparently i was working outside
and i heard the better acoustics
and i almost played my guitar the last
time i was bringing
salt and sugar and toilet paper from
the attics:
i once upon a time wanted
but was not fated with either guitar
or chemistry as supplier
of bogus narcotics and to alleviate
the softness of this world
while the primitive aspects were
concerned: of no concern...

                 but i didn't: one handshake
i wonder what that is in Katakana:
handshake...
ooh! no Cambridge Dictionary hyphen
assertion:
it only took Charlie 6 not note to
CONTROL:
medical emergency:
possible concussion
head split open
falling over traffic barriers
metal to calcium
infestation with iron: this calcium

what? call an ambulance?
am i the ******* patron Saint of the Hospitaller
or something?
the Wembley footprint?
judge of what? character?
the guy is bleeding like a monk:
tonsure...
the natural bird-line of his nesting hair:
call an ambulance?!

two quadrants showed up
*******:
three charlie call signs
then the External Manager:
LIMA ECHO...
how the **** was i supposed
to call an ambulance:
hell's bells was playing
in the background:
sure, i was at the ac/dc gig:
got two t-shirts:
for me and my father
but i was working:
getting paid for X
but not getting paid for
reinvigorating the reinterpretation
of Heidegger's Dasein...

not the ambitious man:
i "forgot" to text my availability to Lyndon:
***** Scouser: yar...
and i forgot to text back my lover
and that's just that:
if poetry:
well democracy works when you
have individuals like Damocles
and the swords of Saddam Hussein:

work... but when you have
democracy contra democracy:
people are not infringing on your way
in living:
today i was visited by a Conservative
minion campaigner
and there my ambition stumbled
and i became this
devilish little man
of little things
and that was just fine:
since god is not c.c.t.v.

              demonic in flavor or anything
more than the 1
in the eternal decimal pointer:
UNDIVISIBLE:
UNDIVISABLE:

   1
       not: rather: 0.111111111111111...

1/9:             there are NINE: nein?
NINE HORSES OF THE APOCALYPSE:
five are missing:

             boredom!
                  madness!
          technology!

i found at least 3: got kicked in the head
by a white horse in the moonlight: almost...

            PEACE!             that's four: the horse
of peace: peace is like a war:

         conquest?         contra the mortal quest?
from the Vatican:
what 7 deadly sins?
  how about the 8 realistic horses?

conquest i will do like the synoptic
readers did unto
the apocryphal readers:
i will: turn: the other cheek..

   you savvy: drop drool and lip
blossom: no? maybe spring in New York
and in central park...

the horses are running:
War Rower
             Peace Pacifier
  Famine Fetishes of Fat
Death the Central (Power)
Boredom and Brew Dogs

how many horses? i need a chariot:
no carriage: just two archers...
5...                      3 more?
borrowed from the classical
sense of geometry
Greco:HYMAN:HYMN
ITALICS:WOMEN:He:did':brew:'t

          HALF-DEATH: horses of dementia:
needle? thread: extension of grass?
so much *** of glitter... no?

      horse of TECHNOLOGY:
the Solipsist: the St. Augustine
with his Soliloquy: once: Soliloquies
like the injustices performed
upon Sisyphus by the gods:
while... the Titans were helpers:

Prometheus: and the un-ambitious man...
like: moi...

              have i covered more: not expected?
just the barrage of typo
and type: dot dot dot
while i watch a book burn unlike
a cross in the Chatter
Club Capitalism: wavering:
unsure where is Left Copernican
and Right Copernican:
north and summer
south and autumn
winter and east
and spring west:

                not sure: feel: disorientated...
slightly...
     almost got kicked in the head by a horse
but i was stupid enough to walk
in the woods
while angry at the blinding darkness
i had no ego for light-bulb
but instead overheard:
i will not be a **** enthusiast
i heard SATAN I N EXCELSIS...

                i must be a good enemy of man
if i am also the best friend of man:
however many times:
i try not to be one.
perhaps that's how it came to be:
to thus become:
learning how to pet animals:
minimizing talking to pets
like minimizing talking to lovers
during ***...
i make fun of my cats
automating onto onomatopoeia(s)
while they pretend to want to talk...

oh but i know animals can
talk the talk of humans:
i overheard my cat Oscar Darshan
tell me outright:
(ty) JABEŁ...

                i don't need to raise
children: people disbelieved me
i went to psychiatrists
*******
and your white powder SODA brain
freeze: powder! ambitious
sexed up men of grey: and suits!

          women can have children
and hear them speak all they want
but life for man?
when he hears a petted animal speak?
sorry:
aversions to your **** and
providing bus drivers and doctors:
i have mystique:
and my testosterone:

wasn't the fox at the Greenwich:
yeah: the hustler:
enough proof?
doubting Thomas you too?! not so much
a Peter?! Edie?

Sidestep’s a political cat--
Seldom around when you need him.
But it never fails: he is there
When it's time to feed him.

Early on, his mother knew
He'd be a politician.
As a kitten, he proved to be
A glib rhetorician.

He could talk his siblings out of
Any treat or favor.
He quickly learned what went down fast
And what he needed to savor.

In kitten school, he highly excelled.
Though not an expert reader,
He was good at giving orders,
For he was a natural leader.

When it came to loyalties,
You barely knew where he stood.
He was known as the "cagey one"
Throughout the neighborhood.

Now he thinks that caterwauling
Expresses his constitution,
And he has devoted time to perfecting
The art of circumlocution.

When you think you've pinned him down,
Much to your dismay,
He evades your prying questions
And suddenly slips away.

His donors, extolling his policies,
Are proud to be in his tribe.
What they might call a major donation,
Others call a bribe.

"Donations" consist of a dying lizard,
A tasty, half-eaten mouse,
Or a scrumptious piece of grasshopper
Next to the door of the house.

When the spotlight shines on him,
Oh, how his eyes glisten!
But sometimes he talks way too much
And doesn't like to listen.

He maintains his strategies
Are crucial for survival.
Thus, he looks for ways to smear
Any political rival.

He thinks he is quite the card.
However, opinions are split.
Though liked by some, many think
He's really full of spit.

"You will always win with me!"
Is one of his favorite quotes.
He hopes his fake sincerity
Will win him a lot of votes.

Sidestep runs a messy campaign
As he stands in front of the flag.
He just hopes that no one lets
The cat out of the bag.

-by Bob B (1-31-20)

how dare i agonize humanity thus
with my writing
how silly of me
how pretentious and perhaps
even vain
to make eyes grieve having
unseen these words
        
                    how little i bring
no leech of remedy
no parrot of backstabbing talk
no carrot for motivation
no dilution of suffering
just this stressing of disparity
and differences

as if
as if that wasn't apparent

shying away from life in private
this reverse-engineered voyeurism
now clinging for a bouquet of
verbose patterning

like a brick **** having fallen
with a tumultuous sound
of a nailed stork
           a nailing that becomes a falling

now a coffee and a sobering
cigarette
now a walk to the supermarket
to buy onions and whiskey
before the mothers and their children
return from school

before the men come to their
homes with empty bellies
and worldly dust
of business
that men like me not huddling
but exacting a 103kg 190cm frame
waste out times on words
rather than athletic miracles...
seems rather strange
that i have not been endowed with
more oomph and furor
to strip the world to basics

but how could i content with scared
eyes
and hopeful eyes
of people i'd feel no private mechanizations
with...

truce at 20 and off to Africa
little Rimbaud
somehow transliterated into American
as Rambo
although i do stress the Rims of Bau -
and the D can be dropped

perhaps i'm still on a beach on Kauai
and i'm not giving this day
enough due diligence
to occupy myself as a man of action
of deed of consequences
just this hermit like half
clenched body
a kneeling prosody -
         will i actually forgo this stupid
dream
this decadent myopia
of attempts and further attempts
to deflate life
and shelve it...

                                    so impossible decadent
i learned to abhor this ambition
that's no real ambition
i learned to abhor this ambition
this tease
this: well it's not for the money
but the troubles of ******* into words
and doodle-d'ah doodle-d'is
                      
       it's so abhorrent that i should waste
such hours of sun
on a page
that is literally and not
an abhorrence
this is an abhorrence to literature
should it not come as vein and artery
and heart of distractions

at the core some legality of legacy
in transcendent disappointments
and not this
this defeatist slosh and sleuth of
beyond personal
detailing

                     this luxury of no antidote
to life's nether regions of
emotional demands for dexterity
actual conversations
less this defeatist escapade
this is no Guru Alias Self Help -
words from a professional zenith
akin to
   o let's say akin to:

     a james sexton

   in his words the man is a machine
let's say doing 50+ hours of work a day
and that's somehow an admirers' *****
bank
deposits: center

                      but not even like
yesterday all glazed eyed
thinking to myself: over indulgence?
or is this something
akin to:

well all the chores have been done
toilet cleaned
and i have no reading to do
and yes i did tip myself with some
marijuana and some whiskey
but at least i'm not watching t.v.
and if that's really a guilty pleasure

sure this is no Rimbaud
and romance and fantasy of
done aged 20
nor this can be the Bible of relevance
or a Dune saga
but at least i am not watching t.v.
and from a furthered perspective
i never thought
i'd say it
but i have become indifferent
to music
like once i loved music like all
children love something
be it football or a library of tracks
but so indifferent
have i become
it's almost a question formulaic
in that i have become
can be easily retreated back: into
the proper use of grammar

so in the end it's just
an exercise
an exercise in the use of language
as a way to disguise the fact
that i'm not a rhetorician
and that i don't speak air
but mumble dirt with words

what spurred the purge?
well... a nugget of ash
in my whiskey
from smoking a joint that's what
spurred me on

those images coming in to seal
of words

the body of "christ"
if that were me
all i would have given them
would be a glass
of wine
with some ash in it...
there would be no mush of bread
after all living among
those pagans and their ritualistic
hygienic concerns
with what to do with feces
and **** and the dead
well burn them
sewer that ****
then my Last Supper would be
a dash of ash
into a cup of whiskey
and that would be the end of it

it's as if the joke continued
when the Roman legionnaires
soaked a sponge with
wine and lifted it up to him on the cross
and asked whether he'd like to drink
from it...

yes... that story is true:
Στεφατoν (Stephaton)
Steven - a Roman Legionnaire -
well if i'm going to think about Jesus
on my way to the bank
i passed two young colts
maybe Mormons
but that's weird it being England
and also Essex
but when i left the bank
instead of the two Mormons
i was met by a Hebrew
and sorry
but proximity
timing
universe
spacing
this is all very subliminal
not relevant but very subliminal
in under-context...

this is a meditation
and not some thrill seeking
get tipped
to forget something not deal with
something
just the farce of going
to the bank with a flimsy
take on a legal matter
and made to look like an idiot
when the Power of Attorney
is a 16 page legality script
and not some half baked
but the bank "attorney": adviser...
knew that i was dealing
with some emotional barking garbage
since i did muddle in the expressions:

- i'm sorry but i feel i've
been sent on a fool's errand...
- this piece of paper is only a copy...
- yes, i brought my passport with
me just to show you i'm not trying
to scam anyone...

yes... the wine soaked sponge
a joke on bread
if it were my last supper
it would be a glass of wine (they didn't
know how to make whiskey
back then) with some ash in it...

wine with some gum from Sudan
and tobacco / marijuana ash...
            
                                     nazdrowie!
           sláinte!         (and where they get that
slanCHe from i will never...

slā (indo-european: advantageous)
                          swa-
                                    -va
swo-
                      -vo

                           certainly beats watching
daytime t.v.
which is just as bad
as having a little bit too much whiskey
and marijuana in the afternoon
without the ability to purge
and sober up

                  daytime t.v. is like a gateway
drug to lazy
activity -

              something those 19th and even 20th
century poets didn't have
to contend: contest: abbreviate
not even radio
i'd say
not even music
in seemingly insomnia mode of so readily
available
which makes sense
to constrain it
to an opera house
go and see the Magic Flute performance
at the ENO and storm
out like a phantom
with a giggling girlfriend
why so pedantic why so argumentative
well: the ******* production
is not in German
this is nothing like the magic flute
if this would be played in that scene
from the Shawshank Redemption
i would be doubly the gladly of being
indoors outdoors indoors
of a prison

                         ...

            elegance, knowledge, violence?

the original had an exclamation mark
involved...

     ruggedness, wisdom, compromise!
ruggedness, wisdom, negotiation!

i sign to the body eclectic:
hardly... anything associated with the zing
and zigzag of electricity:

i have a spare hour in the afternoon
and i made a good enough judgement
call to go to my usual barber
shop without my usual barber:

closed my eyes and sat back:
waiting for a tingle akin to the defrosting
sensation of a dentist putting on
his latex gloves and shoving his
fingers into my mouth:

maybe it was me looking at an old
man bewildered as i was
finding a younger man at a bus stop
choking with impromptu rap
and huh? met a huh?!
by then there was no genius spectacle
just a common cold: case:

of those i love: hmm: slow drilling sensation:
humdrum... humdrum...

why is it that music has become
so: dissatisfying...
i still make quantum leaps of memory
thinking about locking Reyla up
in my "castle"
while me and Edie go out to
conquer and misunderstand London:

highbrow my ***:
if i'm going to a German opera
i expect the opera to be in German...
i don't understand: by now: satire:
of having translatable efforts
and abstract postmodernism blah blah...

you had about 30 odd (impossibly so)
flirting with the stage
holding pieces of paper
running around like headless chickens
insinuating the imitation of:
a flurry of birds...

the phantom did appear:
by the interval while the culturally flabbergasted:
astonished... cooing wows and woos
because that's: about right: the "money's worth"
brigade sat through
the excruciating domain
of... oh... let's say...

google search: algorithm testing:
serial killer with pins in ******* before execution:
Half Berg Fosh...
well: that was me: but i wasn't getting
enough sadomasochistic "flavor"
to want
demand or need to sit through another
let's say: half a penny's worth quarter
of an hour...

something grey and -ish and subtle like
a slug that's not a snail
cannibalizing itself...
but music and cinema:
opera: what is there to be celebrated
with this: vagary:

i used to soothe myself into sleep
(perhaps finding dreams,
it's not like i can, simply, conjure them
with rabbits from top hats)
utilizing music:
now... i'm looking for insomnia and
her snoring
but maybe: justifiably so:
there's...

        i knew the guy sitting next to me:
was going to get a haircut sooner before
i was
a beard trim is an added expense: expanse...
talk of football and how:
well this player didn't do this,
this player was ****
poor result...
and i'm thinking: but there's so much
world and other worldliness out there
there are so many other sports
you can delve into: appreciate:
why succumb to just mere soccer
and get yer ******* hammers or cannons
or cockerel tattoos: like:

i just don't understand
by fault or non-mistaken...
it feels like the glue of society is running
dry and even if a fly should
sit on it: the sticky property of glue
are just not there:
there's this: dystopian: miasma...
this: everything is just dandy
just... reminiscent of the later stages
of the 20th century being:
underdeveloped in preserving continuity:

but the spectacle is still there
while i'm thinking about crowd control
and it's just a base repertoire of
clueless rhetorical venturing to
speak while also doubly-speaking
using sign-language that's imagination
curtailing: nothing cryptic about
it just explaining:

a wall of people vs a sea of people
and focusing on:
creating a river of people...

and to think of how many children i could
have had that could have become
the prodigal sons the bus-drivers
and anatomy specialists of a proper brunch
and some other unspectacular
fractions of my DNA... maybe...
just the right sort of punctuation
to alleviate my otherwise missing
subject matter... since it's of no concern
(by now)
given there's no need to use ink
or paper
and i can just summon the almighty
technology barons to ensure i have
enough democratic space to
leave my spew to fester and wound
and wind up: no wind?
wind up... no whining?

WYND as opposed to winding up:
that why why why is just jitters and hot air
i want to write something delightful
like a:

hmm: quietly in the kimonos...
a Jane Austen saga: compilation of:
everyone introducing each other and themselves
all proper and courteous with
Mr Fethrington: Mrs Allowancekeep...
Mr Jeffrey Juicesor:
Ms Heavenlywait...
Baron Oswald: Herr Fritz...

           so we end up scribbling weaving scribbling
how half-baking dough looks like
but not for any other circumstances
but the allowance of a ****** 100 years from
now:
because by now conversation
without to a saving inkling of intimacy
is just your standard: hello, the weather,
haven't seen you in a while...

lisp doctor: a microcosm of imitation with
the cashier
past the self-checkout she was too busy
so i went to the tobacco stall and that
usually casual: oh i haven't seen you in a while
and in the most detail:
like some 19th century parody of pre-Victorian
stiffness and:
a man will become exasperated:
enamored: by a simple touch of the fingers:

ooh! ooh! so much LGBTqx+z taboo bashing
now i feel like i'm on brain-freeze mode
but if so much is permitted
and there are no restraints: no gravity of ***...
just random bishboshing about
like watching paint dry on the wall
or agonized with plentiful seeing a tumble dryer
spin spin spin O spin spin O spin...

i think by now me and  JILL MCDONOUGH
can talk about *** like everyone talks
about ***
in that *** as this great ambivalent allowance
of testing both sea and lake of
thirsty for more sea *** of heterosexuality
while the supposed calm of sweet water ****-erotica
at least in my mind
the gay intellect is real
rather than stages of fetishes, fiction, daydreaming...
Harlequin novellas my grandmother
used to read:
at least my great-grandmother expected
to be a nun but no nunnery she got...

so this, my meager half *** half want half:
i halve halves and therefore: presto: hey! quarters
because: just: *****-nilly super-Filly...
there's this sense of a long goodbye
while all things electric and plumb are just
fine as long as there are bus drivers
and airplane pilots and cashiers
and as long as death does not overpower
the living with some tumultuous brainstorm fakery
of:
       this decadence all around us:
this hiding of illness and faking: and eventually dying...

then some splendor of the misnomer hyperbolic
comes along and one begins to chant:
that shovel is not a fork
that fork is not a spoon
that black is not black
but is red
and that Eiffel Tower is supposed to be
a glorified scaffold monstrosity
enshrined on the horizon of Kuala Lumpur
in bamboo!

but i can return to the casual, boring,
tongue borrowed from everyday...
or i can savor these impromptu escapades
into semi-nonsense...
but shh... it was hardly the prompt scribble
for some rhetorician to scramble over:
this is not persuasive language:
i've already persuaded myself thus far...
what's a little more, beside the already itching
scalp from the barber's treatment to
make me look civilized and not spooky...

MFA... fine arts...
   seems to me a bit like how men pass laws:
unlike the laws without whims
unwavering like the tall building the ledge
the cartoon of stepping onto air
not falling for a second...
the judgement surrounding: the critique of:
the appreciation of:
then back to the world of laws
and those men constipated themselves:
the sound whimsical ordeal:
best to stay away from the courts and the art
galleries
since you might end up disappointing
by being disappointed by somehow not
being appreciative enough:
not enough: force-feeding turkey before
the advent of the great corruption...

like religion it's always a case of:
i say what you don't say
and that should be best: for both of us...
supposedly not, the, case...
well: it's not even supposedly not
and more a: suppose so...

(i would gladly just delete this
but there's some use, even for something
mediocre as this).