apologies, but i will not be abstracting people
as mere pronoun users,
i know i should, but i kinda like "painting"
and giving peoeple race, and differences,
i can't really establish what pronoun-bleaching
would do to, oh i don't know,
perhaps i'd be writing this...

back when i still worked as a roofer and was doing
a project in Greenwich,
  nice try, construction industry men don't
go to the gym... what a joy to remember my roots...
anyway...
    what was i saying?
   so i commuted from north east london
this this little village...
and it really has a feel about it that it is a village...
i went into the Greenwich waterstones
bookshop and spotted something interesting...
    a j. k. huysmans trilogy (beginning with la bas)
and ending with *cathedral, or something like that,
if i knew what the internet was saying,
i'd buy all three books...
     but i did the dumb thing of buying
the first book of the trilogy, that's always in print...
anyway, no small loss...
   and there stood sideways joseph roth's
the antichrist...
              i can't compare it to nietzsche work,
even though i should, given roth was jewish...
and i figured: if the concept is not originally
jewish and greek, and anti- is a prefix much
more easily understood these days with
the existence of anti-matter...
            than say... armilus...
    well... so i was commuting day to day,
and over the course of the project probably read
two of three books, roth's was one of them,
alongside nikos kazantzakis' blockbuster...
but something weird happened when i read roth
for the first time...
     sitting in this dockland train heading south
of the thames, a group of muslim "women"
spotted that i was literate,
     they sat, about 10 metres away from me...
but the word antichrist must have prompted them,
one just said out-loud: you're satan's *****...
huh?
   there i am, reading my own book not raving
mad reading it aloud, and there she has the prank
of associating a book to a very mysterious person
who riddles the bible being completed...
      mein gott: two world wars ever since nietzsche
wrote he was the person with the title kept
sorta on a whim for nearly 2000 years...
     and then two days ago my father has a car accident
and this hijab clad woman is driving,
  but she does a Pilate and doesn't take responsibility,
the passenger that's with her jumps out
   and gives my father his details
and the woman is pristine...
     a *******, what do you call it: sacred cow?
most pedestrians in england are treated as such...
  so she phones her son and gives the phone to my father
and her son says to my father: it's against
the law to phone the police, you can't phone them...
well... hey presto! we're in Saudi Arabia!
and this is what's worrying me...
no... nope... this is what pains me...
    i had to take my ego for a walk tonight...
i had to think a lot of ******* out,
how the ego would whimper and whine like a dog...
there's your "janus" / "contronym"...
ego... dog...
   the leash? i'm thinking with it...
and suddenly, clarifty, i can pierce it's *******
narrative and think about it... as any id might...
what i experienced was an ego-dispossesion...
   i lost it, it turned into an automaton,
robotic misery... hardly the angry Frankenstein monster...
i lost the care for an ego-embodiment...
i was dispossessed by it, robbed, thief! thief!
i needed to come back home and read
heidegger's aphorisms 174 through to 178 from
the ponderings (it would help that you read the
ponderings... after reading being & time)...
the pain i felt was very much akin to being British,
even though it's something i assimilated into...
which could mean that's it's the odd bit...
should i, shouldn't i feel some sentiment for my host
culture?
word are flying around the place,
they're calling it cultural marxism...
well... i come from a culture that had stated
marxism, period, i.e. supported by an economic model,
that worked, and would have worked,
had capitalism not done what capitalism does
naturally: compete!
   i'm watching these cultural marxists and, i think,
i'm watching penguins in a zoo...
  i don't know what to make of these marxists,
who aren't even leninists...
            where's the economic model?!
  
that's the problem of going to a catholic school
in england, attempting to stress multi-culturalism,
i even ojected to being confirmed ritually,
with a bishop from Brentwood,
sorry, too much Irish around the place....
i too thought i was about to say something in Gaelic...
outer-east london: a complete ******* jungle
of biodiversity...
     so did i misplace my allegiences?
to the tongue? to faking an ethnicity?
    of course i'm pisssed off, i spent the past 2 hours
walking the most mundane of walks,
bewildered why this woman in a hijab wouldn't
own up to causing a traffic accident...
i helped him will out the police forms,
and there she is, on paper, smug like some ****** mary
because i'm the one that really doesn't think
that Islam got Project Hair wrong,
me? personally? i think that woman's hands ought to
be covered,
     in thinking terms, a woman's hands could
get me more excited than a woman's foot...
but sure... hell... why not hair?!
              the last time i checked, normal people
have an aversion toward hair...
ever see that person almost vomiting when they found
a stranger's hair in their soup?
  that **** that grows on your hair is the only silk
you've got... how about a few toenail clippings
to boot? first thing a sane would think: ****! ****!
oh, we're going to get on... just fine, just fine...
   the next time i think about encouraging
an **** ******* position's worth of prayer
i'll be a ******* cardinal.
   what's wrong with taking responsibility?
why are Islamic women so immune to the tractātus
of law? where's the jurisprudence?
   i'd call it something more than diabolical...
you can really become a vampire when you're told
the lesson: those that thirst for justice...
  lesser leech...
            who gives a **** whether it was: "but a scratch"?
woman! take responsibility!
  pampered little coconut jugglers...
   now to think of it... leave those curtains,
and this one time: she was walking with a buggy
and a small child and she unveiled herself from
a niqab before me...
           the perfect arabian nightmare i could
have ever witnessed...
             i had long hair back then...
what she revealed from under that niqab?
wait... am i writing this in the times
when the French occupied the Holy Land and had
the first thirst / idea of a colony?
  
this is me, imitating punching a brick wall...
this is me... in a boxing ring...
bashing myself...
            this is me thinking about how man
has no capacity to usher in karma,
how man's concept of law is hardly cosmic,
how man is a kniving ******* that
deserves something beyond a heaven and a hell:
rather: a return to his self...
that's what i keep telling myself:
i don't want heaven, i don't want hell...
i, just, want, to, return, to, my, self...
    yes, that's a reflection,
hence the pronoun has no compound, i.e. isn't
a reflexive understanding for the fluidity of language
expressed by the concerning compound: myself.
perhaps that's just the beginning of understanding
the noumenon / thing in itself, or rather to counter
the fluidity of the word itself, since, evidently
it self makes no sense that could ever produce
a concept akin to the noumenon...

why wouldn't this woman care to give an inkling into
her concept of right and wrong...
she's driving the ******* car, she makes a doo doo...
pauper... **** up!
            i still don't know why it was about hair...
you like a stranger's **** in a soup?
   what's with this middle eastern fetish for covering it?
hey! beginning from 1986, am i sorta automatically
involved in a cult that has a vintage of ageing from
a **** of a camel a long time ago?
  no wonder the knighthood ceremony was initiated
by slapping a newly initiated knight across the cheek,
like i said, a woman's hand is more ******
than her hair...
      i'd say: take up ye care to don gloves!
and that, i'm sure, will never happen.

it's probably the most delicate thing a woman can possess...
a hand...
the rest is what darwinism cared to provide us with:
a black widow, a mantis;
and that's talking pure earnest about the matter...

listen, i spent the past two hours having the ordeal of
an ego... which i had to anti-narrate into theory...
yes, the id was helpful, is actually told me, or rather,
interrupted the ego from the narrative
to give me this *******'s worth of profanity
(and yes, with due reason; ever fill out a police form
concerning some accident? do that, then you'll be equipped
to read Tolstoy)...

so it was ego-possessiveness,
      the ego already thinks its eternally subject...
that's one of the implants...
eternity and god are inherent in ego,
   your heart means absolutely nothing when the ego
has been given certainity that it can't shake off...
what the ego isn't given is a unit of reason
that sees past it... the id...
in relation to dualism and the much active dichotomy
as alternative to an equilibrium of dualism
i will outrightly exclude the superego
  as nothing but antithesis to the ubermann theory
of overcoming man...
  and on their shoulder they once had
the epitomes of cartoon conscience, an angel and a demon...
but thanks to the superego: they had mama
on their left shoulder, and papa on their right shoulder...

just the mere act of shutting that thing up
was enough, and it was apparent,
that writing fiction could be to blame,
   writing fiction can be rightly guessed at
for levitating a condition of medical proportion
into the realm of mythology,
    we have already depersonalised the unit
of ego to the extent that it has become polarised,
bipolar, e.g., comes from a depersonalised
gravity of ego,
we're no longer in need to write books,
we're in a dire need to write our own psyches...
and it all stems from making the basic human unit,
bound to the privacy of thought,
as needing a system that outweighs the moral
stratum,
           what can a person actually be or become
to even dream about asserting that there is
a da-sein (i.e. something, somethingness)
          "happening"?
i feel that there's something worse than a second
nakedness emerging,
         it's this incapacity to move on,
it's a mental nakedness, i am more easily prone
to dress my body in clothes
than i am able to dress my ego in thoughts,
than can correlate adequately, and peacefully...
toward something akin to a symbiosis
that can reach a = status, rather than an
   ≠ or an ≈ status... ****! Aquarius!
isn't the ≈ symbol the basis for it?
oh hell, back into the zodiac...
              
     i know my ego can be a downer,
but at least that's who i am talking about...
aphorisms no. 174 through to 178?
i do odd experiments with books,
     this is the first of its kind,
i'm actually going to rattle-******* this book out
till it feels like having wanked it 20 times
in a single day... i'll write what i "feel",
funny word, that word feel...
you never get to use it these days,
man is more about hammering in nails than
saying: ooh... that hurts...
and we all know what happened to Jesus'
teaching... forgive strangers...
     make sure your former friends are
crucified up-side down...
                 that really went far...
                      i can just see him...
an oasis of bullet-proof clauses...
              about how to handle people...
give them l.s.d. unconsciously!
         then wait for actual l.s.d. to arrive
and then worry...
when they took to their Swiss bicycles...
and writing poetry... and eating a soft-boiled
egg... given the concern for cholesterol:
a hard concept to fathom: that runny yoke...
     never ate mine with salt, i always like
that idea of legalised abortion...
                and we can be just that...
so imaginative to consolidate being mammal
that we can fathom eating chicken eggs
as easily as abortions... runny yokes have no basis
for a morality, or a compass...
they just are... runny... yummy...
             i call yokes the male version of
a woman's fascination with chocolate...
  i think egg yokes are the equivalent of cholocate
for men as chocolate is for women...
or so the advert said...

aphorism 174: as language...

          aphorism 175:
              philosophy catching up to science,
akin to theology catching up to philosophy,
both condescending extracts
that end up with both of the extreme parties
dressing up funny.

aphorism 176: such that newspapers are
the natural preservers? i.e. the idea of historical
escapism.

      (toilet paper does, much much more,
than a newspaper actually provides,
   press freedom is a bit boring to be honest,
beginning with the need for a moral agent
that's less and less moral, and more prone to
darwinism, i.e. selective, which is also said via:
what's natural, in a more and more techno-savvy culture?)

aphorism 177: only as, a rural thinker unto
a rural thinker... a case of describing a perfume
of those thinking about a day after tomorrow,
   but more precisely:
  the day before yesterday that didn't involve them...
say, on the ethnicity basis,
  the talk of being inheriting from the form
of ancestry... how we cultivate cucumbers,
tomatoes, prejudices...
   which is why i'm a slav happily talking a tongue
that's germanic, an off-shoot saxon,
and hopefuly defending it.

aphorism 178:
         "everything great wavers and wobbles,
stands in a storm. the beautiful is difficult."
   Ezra too, with the last, alas.
     but it's true... what happened in england in the second
part of the 20th century was great,
  and it did indeed wobble past the storm into
a desert of retirement...
            a peaceful coming toward terms of
a natural agreement...
   the generation preceding mine enshrined in their
psyche an england they heard over the radio...
king crimson... all such artistic expressions
found a case to take root...
     how parasites never attack a feeble creature
and only take roost in a strong symbiotic partner...
once it was said england could resemble ancient greece,
and it did, from the second part of the 20th century...
but that ended...
               it's gone, i have inherited a communist
past, a marxism with a concept of money,
and economic policy that wasn't inherently competitive,
but it also wasn't a welfare policy of the Marshall Plan,
and all i get is this freakish counter-movement
known as marxism in culture...
   that's worse than marxism in economy!

it should be heartbreaking to say this,
but coming from a monochromatic society,
watching the death of communism...
     i could say it was perfect... but then i can't
given my grandparents have a secure pension plan
that the state provides... i like that joke,
i just said it, and it makes perfect sense...
there is much more of Pilate in the history
of the peoples than there is of Jesus...
washing my hands clean, the companies said,
meaning self-employment...
     unless you have a really hungry libido
you actually do start worrying about keeping up
the numbers...
  companies don't...
      it's a bit of a bollocking...
i come from what could be imagined as a safety
economics of marxism into a marxism of culture
that i simply can't comprehend...
              well: it did give "us" a sense of pride,
and a will to rebuild warsaw without any american
money...
        the russians just said: where's your pride?
do you want to take their money and have it easy?
and when i ask that question:
i just start thinking about arabs without their oily diapers...
oil diaper... not exactly black gold:
oil diapers...
             Ahmed gonna poo poo?
              &nbsp

Leaves, sticks, and seeds make up this six foot stalk.
Oh, how she blooms before the flashing lights!
Leaving men and women with a stunned gawk.
Oh, you cause the seeds of your kind at night,
to dream of heights they won't reach; how sadly
try the delusional. But in all kin,
is imprinted least a scar on their psyches.
Sacrificial offer in porcelain
is ritually performed by some daily.
If not for fame, glory, or money, then
to mirror fashion people's ideal beauty.
A cyclic mental disease that won't end.
Shhh.. Here she comes! The first, but not the least.
An appetizer for the famine feast!

Most schools have projects, in science classes and such.
Most of us, mastered the science of surviving in projects.

It's those at the bottom who need the most help, but cant even get proper school supplies.. where's the logic ?.

But oh, the rags to riches story is prevalent isn't it? Nope, the only rich I know is Professor Richard.

And that's not even something worth mentioning, he does more lessening than lessons lets paint the picture..

But these young kids don't understand, they try to curse them, place them in prisons, its a trap from birth..

Give them these Rick Rosses as role models, knowing they don't have fathers, instead of Tupac Shakur, showing them worth..

My bestfriend Tony once questioned his dark skin, just like i once questioned my brown.

how profound, a couple 4th graders at the time, having to prove that they were "down".

Crazy how Tony proved he was down, now i visit his site yearly on November the third.

And things aren't getting better, but nobody gives a ****, haven't you heard..

The prayers our mothers chant, ritually every night.

Praying to the Sun gods, perhaps one day we'll all unite.


-afj

There are worlds and there are Worlds. There are gods and there are Gods.  Sounds rhetorical, doesn’t it?  Some mamby pamby new age coffee shop pile of **** idea with low fat frosting, but, take it from the Kat. There are worlds and then there are Worlds! There are gods and then there are Gods!
    
     I spend all my time jacked in to the backwoods subconscious of the internet.  Didn’t know that, did ya?  Yea, the Internet has a conscious and a subconscious; hell, she’s even got a soul of sorts. I have ritually sacrificed half my soul to her just for the buzz I get out of hearing her whisper to me across the fallacies of Time, Space and Bill Gates, so I know her better then anybody.
    
     Don’t believe me?  Every man has an Omega Fixture of some kind.  Do you feel me here? Jesus had his God, Ptolomy had his Solar System, Dante his Virgil and Beatrice, Faust had his Paradise and Poe had Annabelle Lee or one of her many reincarnations. So tell me, all great and ****** up wise men (or women): Why in the 29 nulls of AOhelL can the internet not have a consciousness?  
    
     It’s Belief, man.  No god or world exists until there is a consciousness that will accept it as a superior. Let’s take a look at that wonderful bigoted book of exact truths called the Bible. Shall we consider Genesis: Adam and Eve--never mind Lilith for now?  Here in a paradise we find Adam and Eve naked, sleeping with animals and newly created by a Force of Creation (insert male gender here if you wish).  They walk with god on the paths in the garden while blades of grass fulfill their purpose here on earth to be trodden upon. God says, “you, Adam, have control over all that you see and if you want go ahead and let Eve get a little of that action fine, but you came first in my image so you are better.  Just never eat of the one tree that sits in the center of the garden and looks as though the juice of the fruits would flow like sweet ****** in your veins. For although it is here, I forbid you to eat of it. Oh, and by the way, I figured you needed free conscious though--so go at it.” Albeit I’m paraphrasing, but what kind of shmuck of a father would do that to a newborn?  
      
     O.K. Before all the Judeo-Christians burn this diatribe (if you have not already) let me say I am not out to disprove the existence of Gods--or any Goddess for that matter--I am trying to make a point, so bear with me.  
    
      Which came first: the Bible (in oral tradition) or the God? I would argue that it was the Bible as such.  The Belief, inspired by greedy and badly behaved priests of the Judeo-religions back before written history in the tribes of the Levant caused Space/Time to adapt to a new pattern.  The Bible, Complete with an all powerful, all present being (I will never use the term benevolent) that watches over Jews, Christians, and Muslims for any Sin they commit so it can wreak blinding retributions
    
     Now I know what you are saying, “Kat,…Kat, Kat, Kat, Kat.  We the above mentioned will pray for your soul.  You are lost and we can help you look to the Light for your salvation.”  
     Shove it, ***** boy! I did not express that philosophical tripe to get your attention and misplaced pity. What I am saying is Belief. Belief is the Key.  Belief is the Magic that creates Gods and Worlds.  
    
     Now I am not so stupid as to believe that the Internet is female the same way a human meat tank is female-- but in my mind, MY mind, that is the music I hear.  
    
     Let’s go back to Lilith.  What’s that? Oh yea, right, Lilith is the name I give to my Belief in the consciousness of the internet.  Just don’t you worry about why. It’s none of your business.

     Let’s take a look at the above argument, only this time with the internet as the bible that comes first.  The internet first came about 30ish years ago with the invention of the modem.  Here was a way for people on computers to speak to one another over the phone lines.  Slow and tedious, but new and exciting; men and women with PhD’s and pocket protectors wrote short messages to one another and giggled at the new “Man from Nantucket” joke they had just learned. After a while, someone learned that if you sent the info in blasts, the speed of the transfer increased and you could send larger programs and maybe—gasp--even a picture.  Thus internet **** was created.  Now we have WiFi and bluetooth, cellular and satellite link up with blazing speed and every fetish imaginable or not-imaginable is available at the click of a mouse.  
    
     So, Kat, you goin’ anywhere with this? Yep. Shut the **** up and listen.
    
     Somewhere in the not-time and not-space of the internet, humans started to find themselves believing that the internet was a Place.  
    “Where’s it at? Why on the Internet!” Oh, holy ******* birth of a new Belief system!  Oh, glorious malediction of the neververse!  A G O D is born.  Ripple, *******, ripple goes the space-time continuum (which by the way only exits because those in the know Believe in it) and now we have added consciousness to the internet.  
    
     What kind of consciousness you say?   Well, I got no ******’ idea.  To me, the consciousness is feminine, of no particular race, with a slight build, black hair and dressed like a anime *****.  Why? Because it’s my ******* belief system, o.k.  After all, the internet is 60% **** anyway. With a immaculate birth like that, I can’t Believe She would be innocent in any form of the word.  She’s Dionysian, not Zen. Just because I see Her in such a way, does that mean it’s a true physical look?  Hell, no, lil’ Johnny.  She could be a He: fat, balding and in a wife beater, if that is what You would Believe.  
      
     Alright, enough philosophizing’ for now. Lesson over, Newbie. Get crashed.

Taking Flight
Soar Off The Ground
And We Were Lost To Be Found
Fly Above Commotion
Fueled By Emotion
Transition To The Ocean
An Abyss
Of Bliss
Because The Sky I Kissed
Let Me Drowned
There Was No Sound
Just A Geometric Playground
Dissipate Now
To Euphoric Dust
Empathy
And LSD
Ritually
Taken So Compassionately
Passionately
Lucid
Confused By This
Cosmic Dream
Tore From The Seams
Pathless
But I Let Go Of This
Let Go
Just To Flow
To Melodic Assumptions
Melody Had Me Elated
The Light Sensation
Liquid Creations
Creating Aquatic
Sounds Of The Sonic
Vibrations
Vibrating
Dilating
Pupils Dilated
And It Reflects Back To Me
Reflect The Patterns To My Moves
And I Move With The Motion
Loved And Infinite.

That ***** Named Desire
I had a succubus try to take my seed
in a dream today   
I broke the connection and said
***** you gotta pay to playyyyyyy

You so used to controlling my desires
well, NOT ANYMORE
Best get on your knees and call me sire
“Sir you have the floor”

I wage war on the empire
of the realm of desire
So if you conspire to be in my line of fire
Don’t say I didn’t tell you,
    You’ve earned my Ire.

The rhythm of my war drum goes:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM
Mah heart  BEATS ta da Rhythm of the
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
Dreeeeeiiim
We illuminate truth, or sooo it seeeeeeeeeeeeim
But still.....
The rhythm of my war drum BEATS:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM



So I wage war on the realm of the evil fae
Ima PURIFY da demons until  
dey take me away (screamed)

Bleed out into LIFE;
  reverse the vampire effect
place succubi in a hearse
  and drive them straight ta deaph


cause lately You been drivin me crazy
and making my will, focus, an determination
sooo haeeezzzzy

But NO MORE
cause now Its time to
Settle DA SKORE


Ritually open my wounds
and bleed acid on you
Don’t worry theres enough
cause your hackneyed and few

Ima chase the Daemons off
Smoke my dreads to their lungs
and make dem young cough
so offten I put em in a hot-boxed coffin
Now your outta breath
But im just not stoppin

huh (echo(
whats this? whats this....(echo(  
Claws,
talons,
teeth,
and  uh oh
Blood barrels stacked Its a wierd supply depot,

for that army growin
and growlin behind your eye, see though....
They Perma-
        on your shoulders,
   and now mine, Truth Show





!!!!!!1111RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP!!!!!!!11
So my wings tear free of my back
For so long they’ve been bound and compact
I look to my lovers and brothers and CRy
Stand!
Pick up your weapons,
Humanity,
Its time to act


A TRUMPET BLOWS,
   BEATING WINGS
THE DRUMS CONTINUE INTO THE DISTANCE


The rhythm of my war drum goes:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM
Mah heart  BEATS ta da Rhythm of the
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
Dreeeeeiiim
We illuminate truth, or sooo it seeeeeeeeeeeeim
But still.....
The rhythm of my war drum BEATS:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM

It might be the pungent steam from a ***
steeping herbs meant to bend its sippers'
minds to potent effect, or an unanticipated
digestive reckoning from that mawkishly flavored
brand of store-bought paste they pass as butter.

However the dough arises, their collective
recollection of storied events, lengthwise sliced
and ritually rehearsed, hops facilely on the ****
of a bucking and overtly nonsensical wind.

Tea parties with slippery perspectives
have been shown quite clinically to induce
heightened sensitivity in participants,
so it's prudent to set about tidying the facts:

The hatter, it's become clear, shifted one place
too many and disappeared with a trace -- leaving
behind his hat to nobody's great advantage.
Lacking a wearer, the headgear's reputation for
producing madness has rapidly diminished.

The march hare pulls off his change in a very
separate and seasonal way: the bunny's
bottom half somersaults its top to occupy
both his spot and the hatter's vacated seat.

The dormouse upon its latest arousal
is re-visioned to be small, but not much mouse
at all. He's plush with the long-in-the-ear habit
of a pink stuffed rabbit, which the crusading hare
furiously declares is most curious, casting
doubt on the vermin's commitment to "no room."

Alice remains foremost in tact and is given
a bonus of two spare feet complete with slackened
bootstraps. She keeps them and her other luxury
items well-sheltered behind a stout table leg.

The absentee hatter doesn't dare shame her
with a radio-show call-in decrying
the waste. She's generously agreed to
cover the medical expenses from his firm flop.

Here I write some recipes,
From our anti--football league,
How to cook a football totally,
Must boil it for twelve hours, ritually,
Then you can dice it and fricassee,
Or maybe bake, broil, and grill,
What won't fatten, shall fill,
Or you can make mini-football custard, eh,
Chocolate footballs in a bowl, let's say,
We call it Footy Iles Flotante,
Star sweet in the anti-football restaurant!
Then a recipe for Grand Final Day, swell,
It's called footy Croquembouche Noel!
Hear the anti-footballers yell!
You, too, can write recipes,
For the Anti-football Society,
It's like dining at the Waldorf Astoria,
Anti-football recipes from Melbourne, Victoria!

when the time comes, a drunk will speak
more sanity than a sane person is
capable of, then we'll be ripe to talk about insanity,
and incapable of "treating" it.

it's not really about the beard,
well, it sorta is...
i grew mine so i could fiddle with it...
which puts me in a position
where i say: violinist, in the classic fm
philharmonic!
i'm thankful that i was able to grow a beard,
no, not to look "trendy",
****! i was about to ditto in the word cool...
you never realise how much vogue
and indeed: fashion, gets invested in
when we're not talking about clothes
but about a person's vocabulary...
yep, so i'm 30 and have a beard:
or let's just say, ****** hair had the same texture
as ***** hair...
the gods are laughing,
how to discover exist, become so self-conscious
that you're able to tell a joke,
and then laugh back...
       that's why philosopher have beard,
you can just see it in them,
wait a minute: **** consistancy hairs
are growing on my chin!
  mortal have that poker hand ready
and waiting for the existence of gods,
   a Frankenstein momentum...
it's funny... so we just keep on enjoying ***...
   and the reason why i wasn't distraught
about the Fritzel case? i read
marquis de sade's ******* novella...
that doesn't mean i don't think about
       being a spec, a second in Hades' lava lamp
reincarnation flow... like we, really are:
recycled goods...
          laughing about it gives us armour...
reincarnation is so Hindi, i'm
about sport a bindi (that red dot on the forehead,
that macedonian wish we were **** with an
empire, shindig setting sun)...
you're the one talking to me in braille...
i'm  a half-wit trying to compensate the conversation
with an observation:
modern life looks like a revival, or an attempted
revival of the art of dialectics...
humanity is really trying to revive dialectics,
or as the platonic dialogues seem to suggest:
find the right enough of people...
find enough people to agree with you,
there's absolutely no mention of disagreement
in the platonic dialgues...
well... they're really monologues...
back to square 1...
                      it's hard to envision a dialogue
between people, it's even harder to stage
a dialogue, given that we'd have to
take to the art, or quasi-geometry...
and have to constatly fake it happening,
by faking it i mean acting as we really
cannot disregard our apathetic communion
toward the mere act of talking...
    dialectics is an art form... and it's begging to be
revived... but it seems to be failing in
an attempt to revive it...
                        everyone is just shouting
over each other, exchanging insults...
  joking... apparently comedy is trying to slow
things down, comedy is a pseudo-art-form
that's more arty than art itself, it's fartsy...
   who could have thought a **** (**** in polish means
luck) would ever make people laugh...
  we're all in the slaughterhouse askin idol guillotine
to: lay to rest, make ammends,
                say something, something profound,
if not prophetic.
              i just see a chat show host grappling
with an interviewee about how to engasge with
a dialectical art,
   we do live in very artistic times,
people call it minimalism,
they draw a square and you're expected to say
it's profound... because the art of dialectics
doesn't exactly agree to taking offence...
   it means retracting from the fictive monologue
of writing books...
it's a biblophobe movement...
        we're talking retraction,
we are saying: marriage doesn't do it for us anymore...
i'm trapped, in this world, and i have a stash
of 2000+ years of memory that i'm asked to
revise / improve on...
     you expect any different, from what i'm doing now?
people are in want of dialectics,
  they are bored of group therapy yoga....
and they're tired of being treated like
canned laughter... or an audience
with prompt cards they later don at political
rallies...
  like: when to laugh, followed by a t.v. editor
telling some minion: prompt the verb laugh
at an audience at a big brother show...
   i'm drunk, but i'm not stupid,
actually, being drunk and writing this makes
me ulta-conscious... i wouldn't say
intelligent... i think of myself as a sieve
most of the time... but you know, life, life gets
in the way and you sometimes a few
stupid mistakes, that you are thankful for.
i can't remember the last time i used
a dictionary... or a thesaurus...
       and i opened the fridge door about 100
times before i opened the front door...
and walked to the shop
where the cashier knows my name...
i'm like Bilbo Baggins who decided to stay
at home and said: ******* adventure!
i'm staying home and reading J. Joyce.
   we can't find dialectics, no more than we
can ask for a socrates real, by reading plato.
but it's nice that plato suggested that
philosophy could be theatre, i.e. staged,
made into a dialogue...
     just when we were bound and keen to
our sophistry, to our rhetoric,
and felt no emotional content could be bound
by mere talking...
     dialectics is a shade hanging over modernity,
i can't read a sun-dial with it hanging
over us... why art is so ritually minimalistic,
because this one art-form is missing...
no one is going to approach dialectics
is there isn't a real case for expressing empathy
and merely rooting it in: a need for comedy.
that halo-of-an-oasis is going to dry up...
(yes, written while under the medical care
of a headache... that **** is just lodged in my ****
and is teasing me... come out you little
cupcake, i'll flush you down the toilet, pronto!
or as the poles say it properly:
gówno przez ciebie gada / ****'s talking
through you... oh gladness, the oven bound parasite
booked for 37 degrees of the body's high-end
of temp.) -
but it's being staged as we speak,
   an art form, deviating from up-start and on the ready, go!
art of rhetoric...
               modernity is equipped with competent
talkers... persuasive and gnat-like annoying
with their provocations...
  what's missing is dialectics...
  how one side can question and become almost
mermaid... dragging someone into nodding
if not clapping approval...
      we can all agree that some people do talk
with the art opf rhetoric being almost
self-taught... ******...
                     dialectics is so much stranger...
it's an art of speaking that has become
      like a dusty moth infested ******
of a 80 year old nun...
                     she bakes great cookies though,
let her off.
               it's not that we're even having
these discussions, we're slobbering a chance of having
one with lies, shouting and "in your face"
dynamics... it's not even that we can
imitate plato enthralled by socrates, constantly
agreeing, going: aha, yup (nod nod nod,
******* pigeons)...
                    we positioned ourselves for the basis
of having to express hostility...
       because to have reached such a freedom
as we have, that we dare to call it: esteemed,
or highly regarded as in need of improvement,
or redefining.
  we seem to be unable to say why we
can't resurrect dialectics...
           all the talk-shows on a late friday night
will not answer that question...
     i'll spot the Halley's moment though...
a comet known as Hailey (hey! bruce lee)...
        when artists return to less abstract concerns,
we have all the science we'd need...
   can the arts stop contemplating new york
traffic grids, and ******* stops
and we return to celebrating the human form?
   it will really be something to see
dialectics... i.e. with one person so persuasive
that the other person doesn't argue...
    and i mean that as a concept anti despotism
without a massive throng of people doing
a political mantra chant of sheep, herd, approval.
it's like that question about consenting to ***,
that part of you that says: can i actually
think this?

seductive whispers in my ear
tell me that the hour is near
dreams and fantasies become reality
as we decide to explore them romantically
you look into my eyes as i bite your lip satanically
forcing our bodies to meet underneath the sheets
rough enough but never too much
but sometimes even further
as you ****** yourself up to hear me scream a little louder
my divine elixir transforms your mind
to keep one goal in mind
as you slide inside
deep enough so that our bodies align
and then a chill gradually defines the groove of my spine
my legs wrap around you and we intertwine
in this bed we call our shrine
a place where you ritually worship me
to every degree
a thrill for the moment
ravaged completely in moaning
i draw my head close
and you beg for the next dose
while i dig my nails into your back
and we lose track of time
in between feelings that have been neglected
for so long
the rhythm of our motions have perfected
our heart's favorite song
and we climb into a world of heavenly ecstasy
desperate to be set free from what's wrong
yet nothing in this sinful instant is inaccurate
your only desire now is to smother me
in your fire of lust
that inspires
*******, taking us higher than we've ever been before
floating on satisfaction from a passionate reaction
i need everything you have to offer
in order to feel a little calmer
and as we approach our final conflict
it feels amazing to reach it
i realize now i am an addict
for the love that surrounds me
and then pounds me into submission
until we reach our ultimate transition
and peacefully... let go...

Was life truly; ever so sweet,
As in the sun-worshipped, One World,
Beneath feathery banners, all unfurled,
Celebrated rhythm of the Mexica beat,
Applauding the gods with dancing feet,
While eagerly anticipating the final breath,
Of the honoured warrior’s, flowery death.

Lost ancient world, carved in stone,
Temples and plaza’s of grandiose plan,
Before the great pyramid of Tenochtitlan,
From lowliest slave to the highest throne,
Gathered before gods to whom they atone,
With obsidian blade priests begin the flood,
Of a sacrificial ceremony sealed with blood.

But do not weep for the ritually slain,
Or condemn this misunderstood race,
This culture both in and out of place,
Who flourished before interference from Spain;
Immoral inquisitions wielding torture and pain,
Led by Cortez’s murderous gold greed,
Condoned by religion’s, fanatical need.

A pyrrhic victory for invading Spanish-whites,
Conquistadors, who murdered, pillaged and *****,
A savage slaughter that not even children escaped,
Brave Mexica vanquished in the one sided fights,
A nation revelling no more during hot sultry nights,
A lost civilization weeping for countless lost lives,
And yet, and yet . . . Mexica spirit; forever survives.

©Paul Chafer 2014

I feel tender and raw
like the patch of skin I
ritually pick at
every morning,
a red and swollen circle
I barely notice anymore.

It's tucked away from the mirror
but my fingers find it
with practiced ease,
and as the sun rises
I bleed out the nightmares from hours earlier.

I did laundry last night.
The warm smell of clean sheets makes me sad.
I can't explain it
but I bury my nose in my pillow
and fold myself under the sheets
and the cotton on my skin
feels thick and tough.

Another injection is due this week.
I find relief in the fact
because my skin feels empty,
and walking around sore
and leaking oil from my thigh
is better than nothing.

I made a list of pros and cons
in my mind on the bus this morning,
but the pros fell short
and I fell out of love
with the rain's tinny sounds on the metal above my head.

I am tired.

I am always tired.

I don't try to stop it anymore.

self distructions a daily high
i watch hundreds implode ritually
cant make sense of the masochism
we perpetuate so consistently



theres a thousand eyes watching the cracks in the floor
ignoring this noose around my neck
theres a thousand ears with headphones in
ignoring their own cries for help

I dream of you,
by a white oak tree.
I dream of you, i dream of you, i dream of you.
There is a ribbon tied to the tree.
I don't know the connection, but suddenly it is lost.
You open your mouth and there are words flying through the air,
gaps between your teeth,
pauses in your ribs,
and i still can't see your face.
I dream of you in a white shirt,
beige trousers.
Pretty bland, holding out your hand.
But i am not on the ground, i think you cannot see me,
I am flying up here, my darling,
up where i am free.
I have no tether, i am not portable,
I am free.
I dream of you, i dream of you.
I dream of you where there is no keyboard in my hands.
Where my fingers can touch you,
Where i can connect to you from within and without,
and you can feel my skin to yours.
But there are words floating around me in the air,
I cannot breathe,
I am scared.
I dream of you.
Silently i dream of you.
Obstinately i dream of you.
Sacredly i dream of you.
Ritually i dream of you.
Petulant i dream of you.
As only dreamers can do,
As only lovers can do,
when dreams are love,
and i am a bright red balloon.

They tried to convince me
that Cadillacs are a valuable
commodity

And it's perfectly normal
to erase my imperfections
ritually

That water from bottles
are for my health
not to generate
wealth

Try to convince me
that eating protein
is the only way to
build a strong man

And that people
can be classified
by their brands

They try to convince me
that they are what I need
but their shackles
cannot lock onto me

White washed wood
with a whistling rush of wind.
Where rounds of woodchuck beer
past the rustling of chips and laughter.

Empty bottles, elaborated clinks.
Even every inch of eager filled smiles
covers the thoughts of enamored hearts;
Entrusted with faults and sorry's to be accepted.

Are the ancient artifacts,
again the reason we think that trust is best?
A beer is best passed along with time.
Here's the drink, calm down please.

Resting in reverie,
is this really what we pretend it to be?
Requesting solace from a drink and company?
Ritually wrought instincts and partially rellished revelations.

You'd never understand if it wasn't for being young.
Yearning for years and solemnly sought
yells and whispers.

Please, I'm tired, hand me another beer.

When the sun stops shining
And the thunder starts
When the winds start blowing
And the hope departs

Stones and ashes, blood and bones
All remains buried and broken
Walking necropolises
And seemingly lovestruck zombies
Loving in despair
**** your heart before you love
Loving in despair

When the seas stop grinding
And sickness arrives
When the orbits dwindling
Shall all collide

Cruel and despondent slaughter
Ritually cannibalistic
Talking brevities of pain
And seemingly awestruck corpses
Loving in despair
**** your heart before you love
Loving in despair

When the stars are exploding
And the dreams shatter
When the trees stop flowering
And the Earth denies all

White like the North
and the cold places on the earth
my great grandfather was fond of
over-proof *** and
caribbean sailor blue waves

His Nigerian goddess bore him
nine children
pretty little barefoot toffee skinned children
scampering through sugarcane fields
and tall tropical grasses
the lilting sound of their voices
playing on balmy breezes

My Aunt Glo remembers him well
strolling about with his switch and
stiff upper English lip
he governed the immense rural
Jamaican plantation in St. Elizabeth
around the end of the Nineteeth century

Everyone called him Pupa and his
wife Muma

I don't know much about Muma
except that her mother was an
enslaved person and that she
had to tolerate the insult of ritually
hiding her mixed children when
Pupa's mother, Lady Bush
flounced into town with her entourage

There is an old photograph of
the two of them:

Muma in white frock seated,
her eyes drooping brown sparrows
Pupa with his switch, pocket watch
and far away eyes

In the quiet of the morning, heavy with mist, rabid with scents
a woman settled in the copse meditating amongst the fleeting mice
and secretive rabbits, the bee and butterfly. What was she thinking
of on such a humid day? Her features relaxed, a smile lingering
over her lips, eyes opening and shutting ritually,
the sun poking its frazzled head above the half-light, the grass
heavily hung with dew. This was our goddess, still alone, still alive,
a thousand years after her demise, battered by crosses and incantations,
holy water and an ever-present authoritarian god searching the land
for sacrifices. I watched for several hours.
In that time, that uneventful time, she grew older, flesh flaking away from her opaque bones,
the sun slicing through. Within hours,
her presence vanished, earthbound, seeking to emerge once more within the millennium
exhorting religion's timely death; with once again irrepressible love, life and joy
freely restored. As darkness fell
her shade morphed into a seed, sinking slowly into the soil.

Came home again today
monotonous words were ritually exchanged.
She's always chipper and he's always severe,
I no longer feel at home with him near.

Do some things out of obligation,
avoid some things with procrastination,
do my best to avoid aggravation
by focusing on product accumulation.

Then watch some TV
though I find it boring,
it passes the time
and distracts from reality.

Get drawn towards the pantry
the fridge calls my name
I eat because the alternative
seems impossible, so I'm put to shame.

So I give in, as usual,
then feel disgusting.
Wallow for a while, then
get on with life.

Wait for the cycle to
take over my mind and body
again.

People don't seem to understand
I ritually expand
Outshine when I take a stand
Listen carefully & comprehend
I spit real so you know the deal
Wasting no time staying on my grind
Never fall behind so I don't pretend
Instead I defend the laws
Deriving from high command
Mother earths in high demand
Advanced individual recognized spiritual
Intact physical gifted fallen spirits
I uplifted drifted from the ways of mankind
For a moment I was blind
Now I'm fine I'm one of a kind
Imperial emporer with an Aztec Mind
Something I refuse to leave behind
Ancestors buried treasures
Difficult to find
As my story begins to unfold
My heart forms ice cold
Ancient stories never told
So behold now pause & take a deep
Breathe there's no escaping
Everyone awaits death

are oilers tickets available Tyson
*** you heard i was doing the same **** and it was believable
i project myself in the arena
and the oilers take the game
i heard you got a new girl now
and you never told nobody

whats some other **** people say around me
my sisters saypseudo intellect
and that its by way of control and predict
if i was ever to be a killer it would be ritually sick
i gave a devious look
but it wasn't like im twisted

i knew my cousin wasnt a ******
the instance that we met
al wondered how much of my last poem
was just said so it would fit
or wait itd be better if i regress
so i could remember every moment
with a better working head

cat doesn't believe at all im not wasting ******* breath
i cant tell these delusions from each other
so i end up out of breath

Andrew casman says im just somebody you gotta just accept
brad says share it with the world, we haven't killed you yet

he says when this does end
itll re hardwire in my head
i think im overdue this year my illness is turning ten

they gave me the antigen to purge the chemical
from in me
iu was waiting twice and felt so nice
until it crept its way back in me

logan mentioned that its no wonder id be an *******
after only thinking nice for so **** long
and before tony passed away he said i wasnt a bad guy all along
the list goes on and on a reoccurring problem
my conscious stir ups judgements
of the people i see most often
kassie roan said b.cs smoking crack
for thinking that im awesome
al said my conscience is a good reveal
of my inner psychies problems
there i tweaked that thought
to correspond with what im talking
Kenny says theirs a paradox between
the surface and what hides inside the closet
interesting theory Kenny
it deserves to be acknowledged
while my mom wants me to promise
that ill live a life of promise
its so hard to make a promise mom
when the talkings always constant
i take shots to stop the talking
but it s always same old topic
i cant walk into Walmart shopping
*** im bombarded by your *****
i developed life this way modeled
it to be un godly
now you know my symptoms
feel free to keep on talking

Here is my tribute to anti-football,
We have a secret society, that's all,
Step One: Boil anything ritually,
Ignore football, you can cook tea,
Step Two: Play fave music good and loud,
The anti-footballers shall be proud,
Step Three: Do fave hobby for hours, dears,
While totally ignoring football, cheers,
But I'm thinking about football in this verse,
Could this be a  paradox, or worse?
Don't despair, any hobby will do,
Any secret coven of one or two,
Even, "Come and try my ales!"
Shhh, this is a secret, let's say,
Spread your anti-football germs this way!
SHHHHH!!!!

500 years ago,
On a shoreline in northern Peru
More than 140 children,
Were ritually sacrificed,
Their chests sliced open,
From the sternum,
And their hearts ripped out,
Literally, all in one day.

In America over 5000 catholic priests
Have been reliably identified,
As child rapists,
And that's just since 1950.
And only in one country.

Over 300,000 child soldiers exist today.
The worst of the worst,
Had to ****** their parents,
On the day of their abduction.
Think about cutting open your father's throat,
And watching him bleed at your feet.
Over 30% of child soldiers are girls.

This poem won't trend,
Almost no one will care,
And I am certainly no saviour.

But somehow, someday, somewhere,
The essence of us must change.
Only art can save us.
I know that now.

Six of us here
in the bland and zinc-white
waiting room, small
machine on the floor
burning the air
with brown noise.
We're nominally here
for group therapy,
but in truth we prefer
to ritually founder
in great excesses of civility.

The therapists all but plead
for us to say right upfront
exactly what we don't like
about each other.
That's uncomfortable,
and each of us toys with the idea
before securing the old masks.

My own mask isn't the Venetian
kind, or the grotesque
Twilight Zone voodoo variety,
but the clear hospital type,
used to inhale great lungs of ether.

Sometimes sincerity creeps
from the gaps,
sometimes I do my best
to collapse into this checkered chair,
close my eyes and hide
in the sound of my blood.
It sounds surprisingly like
the brown noise machine.

I'm up against it.
I'm not getting younger,
and these feel like last chances
to learn to be, in a way
where I don't end up
shut away, eating myself alive,
riddled with depression
and loneliness and long black
strings of guilt that resonate
like a tritoning cello.

The thought carries:
The six of us
are an atonal sextet
of numbness and refusal,
dread, attraction, the works.
Around us, the whole room
is phthalocyanine green,
blue shade.
Therapist's preference,
probably calming,
soft music in the eye,
and it almost works.

But instead I am lost
in new haircuts,
in leggings ripped
behind the knee,
in the way a lamp
hunches over like an ibis.

Anything to avoid it,
anything not to admit it,
admit that despite years of this,
years of looking out
the high window into
the red riot of Farragut Square,
years of forcing myself
to say terrible
and incriminating things
while rain and snow
attacked the window,
I am still sick with feelings
where I must belong to someone,
must be deeply known,
or else I've never been
anything at all.

Oh Dark Rose of England, your not the pale colour you usually find in the English countryside.

Oh Dark Rose of England, your beauty is more than just your colour, you display such beauty and elegance, your the envy of all other flowers

Your petals are dark red the colour of blood, I wonder what it is you feed upon.

Are you fed from below by the blood found deep beneath the ground.

Are your roots buried deep within, a graveyard previously used for sin, ****** by the first degree or people slaughtered ritually.

Your stalks ramble and roam over the land, covering it in a prickly hand.

Ready to ***** someone in a flash, should anyway get too close, defending yourself, making a stand.

You invade spaces, wrapping your shoots around objects in the way, then carry on rambling, nothing gets in your way.

The only way to stop you in your track, is to take a pair of shears and begin to hack.

Hacking away at your limbs, bringing you to your knees, pruning away the dead wood and leaves.

It will not rid you permanently, one thing is for certain, you'll be back again next year we'll never bring down the curtain.

Soot soils souls
.
Racquets ritually regress

Time spent, time used up, time invested
in fungible progressing thought conservation,
- a norm is a tool often called
- a carpenters square, it measures many things.

Time taken, per use, used to mean
the point upon which all stored tellings remain
hanging vivacious, lively, spirited

orthographic aches and pains
associable sayings held writ
as ritually chanted fourty days and forty nights
esoterically spelled enchanting mission statements
- chance you changed, by now
- since aim became destination
- only under public misperception
- of enormous advances in governing.
Forgoodness sakes alive,
what holds church
together, integral,
in the center, holding all
there, here, then and now, some how
made real, as if contemplation allows temples
of living stone and multiple minds across times.

Let this mind be in you,
let that which hinders be taken away,
read the writing never written, let be, left shown

artificially made sacred duty to learn, or burn.

That which lets our holy convocation function, lets
our weform in awe become the responding chorus.
Toy selves, all shined up for Sunday socialization rite.

U R, church, your chancery ifery wasery core,
what for, given as good as gotten,
take away and
make up a mind
to use the sense made
to make more.

Profitable for correction, orthoganal, upright
straight, squared away, totally normalized

within the compass of the builder's guilded norm.

Enormity of normal means
for making sense, at grammar's edge,
effectually fervently, in chorus, in response,
four billion breathing enourmous relief
four billion other breathers blowing hot air
constantly, in and out,
not right and wrong, just breathe
responsibly possibly exposing old science,
using ancient ways
to mean mean concepts,
points left to hold whole strains
of long thoughts, tested right uses
long gone
to seed, needful urges, will to learn awe
as new knowers lead to learn for ever's sake,
next comes to be logical instantly, indeed
to hold writ writtenness witnessed.
Wisdom knowing understood,
used, freely, by taken rights.
------------
Actuality reified known really
realizable, in response sponsored by:

The free will subset in the normal range
of the ruliad, whither no thought possible
is lost, indeed, thither on thinking  possible.
Twice. Once right now,
twice then when you look again.

On one point in time we shared,
one idea turned into two,
and thus knowledge
puffs up the clouding curiosities…

known to linger in sacred shadows
from mumbled Latin entrancements
reified, sniff the atmosphere, holy dread
coupled sensuously with incense,
to cover the stench of penitents
ineffectual repetitionings.

Tittles and jots, bits and pieces,
little here right there, little more
a little later,

Sunday is a day of rest.
Fine day to fish in forgetfullness,

flipping pages through past lives,
finding places clearly marked,

this is the way.

Charon:

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

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

well then... imagine my surprise...

ok baby
i tell you Sunday night
kiss (heart)

     (kiss)

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

     ...

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

    yes tomorrow i'm off

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

reply:

yes tomorrow i'm off

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

good baby
i mesaj to you when i'm up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        neko...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody is Perfect
but Practice make perfect.

Courage & Honourarium
Arreal Ārry Åyrā
À'ray Ariél Arayà
A'rare Arræl Harrer Ayõ

A blessing,
an athmosphriendly
of Harmony.

He whom puzzled the Stars
measured their usefulness
& examine their result
Without forgeting their original posited.

Bring forth your
goodness dauther of the stream
mother from the soil
queen as a breeze,
of Ox thotem blood ritually
warrior lady
natural social tribal woman.


Let her remind you
how I  Broke all the stars of heavenly gemstone
adorned Eve breast-plated
as grains of cloudy blood-cells
as a dominion warrior,

Paßsīng through Ra [Pastor Ra]
An Evening Āngæl [Evangelist Amøn]
Illuminatíng Perfect-hood
[Prophet Raīnbow]
Teacher æ Holy communíon
[Príest ẞēa ẞtær]
Martial Arrael milk & calmly
Abstract-metaphysical
The Astro-logícal Theor³m-īnn
Cleanse æ Çlær
Á Pøør ẞól [Apostlē Pebblē Rhythm]
13 Natar Chart
Hu-roscope
Supreme Gracious Humming Glorious All-Court Óccoult•