pets are hours of fun, feathered finned and furry ones
pets are hours of fun, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, owners love them to bits
their antics do amuse, owners love them to bits
owners love them to bits, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, pets are hours of fun

**** playing with a skein of wool, Rufus chasing his tail
**** playing with a skein of wool, Rufus chasing his tail
their capers never fail to get a laugh, what a show he puts on
their capers never fail to get a laugh, what a show he puts on
what a show he puts on, Rufus chasing his tail
**** playing with a skein of wool, their capers never fail to get a laugh

behind the air filter goldfish dart, such a jovial spectacle
behind the air filter goldfish dart, such a jovial spectacle
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, they're natural born entertainers
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, they're natural born entertainers
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, behind the air filter goldfish dart
such a jovial spectacle, they're natural born entertainers

they're natural born entertainers, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, pets are hours of fun
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, **** playing with a skein of wool
behind the air filter goldfish dart, Rufus chasing his tail
such a jovial spectacle, what a show they put on
their antics never fail to get a laugh, owners love them to bits

Ice cakes stick like
Bricks on Brownstones
And Brooklyn sidewalks,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips;
Suspending alternate  parking
Indefinitely...

Street sweepers sleep by the Bay
Dreaming of spring
And summer's stifling heat;

Garbage piles rise to the sky
From graves of snow

A stray cat named Rufus
wrapped in extra layers
Of fat
And black fur,
Streaks into the night,
Looking for love
And mice...

Two hookers in heels
Case the block
Flashing random Johns
And Jills
For 10-dollar thrills

Salt, shovels and greased elbows
Battle ice and snow
And frozen mountains grow
In the aftermath,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips...

For Rufus...

~ Pablo (#ASCNR)
2/19/2014

unlike the book of Enoch's proposition, i deem fallen "stars" (we all know they meteors, but religious language loves metaphors) as disgraced saints, given there's so many of them they can sometimes outnumber angels, so yeah, in reverse of religious blah i deem fallen stars are disgraced saints, rather than disgraced angels.

and upon having written the words that i had,
i felt a sharp indentation on my right hand,
as if someone was pressing a sharpened
avocado seed into it, that i knew was the thumb
of my guardian - there was a reason why
i masturbated prior to puberty aged 8,
that i might know the difference in the ways
it might be taught: circumcision and
religious obedience, and the non-circumcised
with their indolence and hedonism threshold -
or how to marry the monotheistic man
with the man of no theistic concerns -
who came later than the circumcised woman -
who in stories of a Prince f Egypt was beautified
in her agony: as passing the fruit to man -
from paranoid despots of Egypt eager to keep
a harem and let her not simply enjoy the company
of other men, but of greater peril from these despots,
that she could wield a greater satisfaction
from her own hand than his excavation of power -
never before was this story told in the crude manner
it deserved - the shame on poetry, and the subsequent
undermining of poetry! to every, EVER poet out there
readying himself for a renewed reinterpretation
of his horrid book, a word of caution: you will not
gain any other technique from this, no pun-joke,
this is metaphor versus imagery, after all imagery
deciphers metaphor, the ideogram of meaning,
thank god the Chinese were allowed to sustain their ideogram,
otherwise using these skeletons i'd never achieve
a worthy playing field, no table tennis table, no
squash cube, no tennis court, no football pitch...
given the survival of the Chinese ideogram i can climb
a tier higher from what's encrypted,
i can, thanks to the Chinese ideogram morph words
above the tier of sounds, above the tier of grammatical
categorisation that are governed by time / timing, and
enter the only realistic realm necessary, the poetic:
to treat "holy" but subsequently metaphorical texts
for a revision changing metaphor (hallucinatory images)
into imagery (the times when certain tools were
anticipated, of that said: Galileo and the telescope
and the *oculus rufus of Jupiter
it's appropriate karma and the dishonouring philosophy's
feeling of superiority that merely matches them with
Koranic scribbles that poets finally can box the other
strand of language use into oblivion...
poetry and the freedoms to suffice its continuation...
true via a real example: the "prince" of philosophers,
no other than Spinoza, polishing lenses,
as every philosopher after him, sharpening the meaning
of words, trying to eradicate Thesaurus Rex from
human existence, trying to coagulate synonyms into
a single meaning, i.e. prescribing words
of fluidity and subsequent poly-elasticity a mono-usage,
their prize lost, their dittoing of up-kept credentials,
their dittoing but lack of approximation ~******* up /
or simply buckling under the strain...
sharpening of the eye, they mistook killing off poetry
but by doing so, they encouraged Sophistry -
the art of rhetoric... poets never spoke to convince people,
they spoke to entertain people, why are these
apes running the mental life of people?! never put
your eggs in one basket... the poets were condensed into
the same cauldron as the Sophists, even though
poets preferred to speak from a page or the prior written
than from the heart of a deceiving others...
at the time of Spinoza doubt was still a considerable evil,
only when denial emerged were people finally considered
easy-zoological specimens of study: a doubtful faith
is a faith non-the-less, wavering faith, but at least
not an offshoot of denial, which only breeds bad faith
(as Sartre described) and ends up being a confession in
a *******'s bedroom by some duke of *****-nilly.
in the end, all i have to say is: the preliminary poem
always aids your sober affairs that later becoming drinking
affairs: that the Chinese ideogram resilience allowed
us to translate "holy" texts of pure metaphor into
pure imagery, and create the paradigm of desecration
justified like a Mongol in Baghdad...
where the true Golgotha is situated -
that poets aren't sophists, and that by attacking
poets, philosophers created by far the more zealous
version of criticising poetry: a Surat in the Koran
and the current flowering of unnerved sophistry in
politics: not that much a case of speaking with a persuasive
manner, but a way of speaking toward a persuasive
lie that doesn't endanger the status quo.
so what saves modern poetry from despair and dodo?
the Chinese ideogram, thanks to the Chinese ideogram
(working from the book of Genesis) i can pass an object in
the form of metaphor (apple) via jingzi / mirror
and get imagery back (*******) - only because
i am passing one skeletal object of spelled simplicity
into another object of akin spelled simplicity
via something resembling carpals-metacarpals-phalanges
(the wrist) - as the title suggests: wrist-mirror -
only thanks to the Chinese up-keeping of their ideogram
i can transform metaphors into imagery,
the fruit of knowledge into ******* -
or puns into jokes;
this is why i'd only take two books with me to the grave,
Ezra's Cantos and Russell's history of western society:
it's because of them that i get to keep
the desired momentum.

Roofus *****
Is the best

With the slingshot

Shootin' quarters
Out of the air
Without a care

He says,
"See that Japanese beetle
Sittin' on the leaf?"

He shot it right off the top
Good grief!

What is his his secret?
Well practice makes perfect

And he never did
Own a t.v.

R.I.P. Rufus
(1919-1994)

The very first thing I learned about you was your ex-communication from Mormonism. Did you really try teaching a preschool class that Jesus was a Rastafarian? Or was that one of your many big fish tales told to me over the years?

This was when you were only a mischievous high-schooler. Not the cynic you are today, worn down after choosing the safest choices life can offer. When did a clever person like you acquiesce to such homogeneity? Somewhere between your Economist-reading days in undergrad and law school? I know you claim the reason was something about getting your heart broken one too many times. And yes, I know I whacked it around like a pinata... as you did mine. Because that's what reckless kids do. Will you ever accept this as an excuse? Or will you always use it as the reason to avoid my calls?

Back at the age of 15, though, you could do no wrong. A shy smile was all you'd see from me, but I'd go to bed dreaming of all of the clever things I wanted to say to you. My friends would later say you exploited your teaching role as my debate tutor... but me? I was totally, utterly, and blissfully enamored by your explanation of Foucault and FoPo. I'm convinced the reason you fell in love with me was because I wrote a letter to Crayola pretending to be 5 in hopes of getting a free pack of crayons. You liked that kind of smart *** behavior because it was the kind of stuff that made you come alive. Which reminds me... do you still have the "#1 bestseller" sign you swiped from the grocery store? You wore it in your back pocket while wearing your "I spoil my grandkids" t-shirt.

How appropriate that our first kiss was on the debate room couch. I'm glad kissing was, in fact, better for you with your braces removed. And how appropriate that my first date was you taking me to the high school musical, "Kiss Me Kate."

What is it about first loves that make even the most mundane so magical? I can't tell you the number of times I looked out the window in hopes of seeing your red Ford Escort pull up. It took my breath away more than any Mercedes could. Who knows what we'd do when you did come over--probably play Donkey Kong Country, or watch some ironic movie like Donnie Darko. If nobody was home we'd make out to the Disney "Fantasia" soundtrack.

Back then you were always intrigued with the whimsical. Nowadays it's 1940s classics, malt scotch and Coachella concerts. I think your career ***** you so dry of life that you overcompensate with your expensive tastes. The wildest you'd ever get was smoking a hookah. But the guy I remember? He liked pocket watches, Rufus Wainwright, and Harry Connick Jr. I know you're a responsible tax-paying adult now, but I still see you as the wild-eyed wholesome troublemaker you once were. I prefer you that way, even if it's mentally dishonest of me.

Since you, men have wined and dined me at world-renowned resorts and have taken me to presidential *****. But none of these dates have given me the same rush of euphoria as sneaking out and spending the night with you in the home you were house-sitting: That night, we were a pair of 16-year-old rebels. At least we didn't get caught by the cops making out in the high school's agriculture department parking lot. That would happen in a few months' time.

Then you left for college, to gain an education and have experiences that sounded overwhelming for my sheltered ears. It didn't matter that I left for Europe that year--you had left for college, which was a distance in my head that couldn't be measured geographically.

I could recall a thousand barbs exchanged from then until we both finished college: you dated her. I dated him! We made promises. We broke promises. You'd come home for summer. We relished in the relatively new-found art of *******, mostly perfected on each other in our youth. We'd hate each other. We'd love each other. Your friend would hate me; my sister would hate you. On it would go.

But there were such sweet times. We saw Harry Potter together and we sat on my roof, imagining that one night could stretch til forever as we looked up at the stars. It was then that you dedicated Coldplay's "Yellow" to me. And no expression of love was greater than seeing you in the back of the auditorium, waiting to drive me home after my 6th period drama class.

I honestly don't know the person you are today. Sure, you give me snippets. Usually when some girl breaks your heart and you need to vent. In truth, I know you saw me as your plan B. Always. Shame on me for playing that part so beautifully for so long. Could we have worked out, you and me? I smile, knowing that some things from the past should stay firmly rooted where they are. There would always be a part of me that would feel like that freshman trying to impress you, a senior. All the while I wouldn't feel funny enough, cool enough, witty enough by comparison. No, we simply wouldn't work.

You know the rule, about loving your family because they're the only one you've got? I think the same is true with first loves. When I reflect on our oh-so-ordinary relationship, you--I mean, US: we weren't so great. Nothing special.

But my heart sure seems to think you were... even after all of these years.

Things Fall Apart
(Chinua Achebe knew that)
We are what we will be;
What we eat.
Oh, what a world!
What will Rufus think when we are all
Cheeseburgers?
Running the world
(my favorite pastime)
Everyone loves a cheeseburger
But what about the raw ones?
There are too many out there
NO FEAR!
THE GRILLMASTER IS HERE!
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,
I will silence the vegetarians,
And raise the price of organic goods!
That will show them!
And read my lips:
NO NEW TAXES!”

i hate it when a ~haiku is forced upon me, but such
is the case, and it's not a case of dittoing out
a mechanical aspect of that body that's
known as vocabulary:
thus, suddenly, as if a ****, or
a reflex the tongue commanded
the entire body -
left-wing obstructions gave way to
right-wing rebelliousness -
    the left said the tongue was no dagger,
the right said: merely a dagger -
the gyroid: or the muscles we never thought
existed! lanky tendons, etc.
    never the microscopic proof reductionism
and never the telescopic proof           ",
always somewhere in the middle:
and that's about right.
               i wrote a poem, it sounded about right
and then i get the wanked-over shoulder
calling it life-support dandruff
because of the many sprouts possible -
as ever: some come and give a voice unto
the people, and some come and give an ought
unto the people.
               a choice that's mutually inclusive
of thought and choice as a battleground
for the mechanisation of language into
sulphur gas and bayonets
and a thousand wildcards charging and screaming
lost toward the bewilderment of
   forgotten sexting.
      what a mighty affair:
the only country delving the prospect of
an atom bomb being dropped again doesn't believe
in munition economics and doesn't see
that the paranoia can be stopped when the capitalist
sober-heads enter and say: but where's the profit?
there's not profit in an atom bomb:
it ends too soon,
     you never got a Hollywood chapter yoyo
      concerning Hiroshima or Nagasaki...
you got one about Pearl Harbor...
a competent act of war... but not like our
civilians really matter: we civilians got the treatment
of being active members of the army,
while the army personnel were given civilian
Pilate status, the army was given civilian status
and the Japanese civilians were given army status...
oh forget the noodle swindler -
that handwritten hoola-hoop spinster of
carbohydrates is long gone...
          or the greatest paranoia against all other
nations comes from a nation that actually used the weapon!
       i could write a haiku version of what i lost,
but i'll still have to write something about you-tube
vloggers and how they are the newest version
of the objective propaganda machine that's in
the Islamic camp of merchants...
       prophet-merchant? give me a break:
if his word doesn't sell, then who's does?
my endorsement? less of a cosmetic light-touch surgeon
attitude, my endorsement is that of
Morphy Richards' Soup Maker...
cooking pumpkin soup...
  pumpkin... well: it's hardly an easy peel when it
comes to cooking butternut squash...
it's a disaster! a hell to endure! no wonder it's the veg
that frighten offs the ghouls and the ghost
you can't peel it, you have to Apache skin it
like getting a colonial wig: scalping your way into
the high court, albeit minus the greyish curls -
******* is a king of culinary demises
that were sought out expeditions -
you have to knife your way beneath the snail-like
shell and then there's that cobweb of mush
with intrinsic fake seeds / flies lodged in
the orange cobweb - for all that effort
i appreciate it more as a lampshade than a food
source... but then the advertised starving Africans
as anti-colonial compensation for "our"
grandfather's recollection of monochromatic cultures,
before globalisation took off.. hmm.
the soup? pumpkin, potato, onion, garlic,
nutmeg, paprika, chicken stock,
salt and pepper to taste...
tomorrow? a pumpkin risotto...
hey! seasonal abundance, Spanish strawberries
in late winter are too watery anyway...
   people forgot that certain things taste better
in season, that's namely fruits and vegetables...
   go outside your fancy, outside your whim,
you'll finally have to say: my eyes eat
at the very credibility of such things being
there without the season... but my tongue does not
taste the thing that requires a pentagonal sense
honing in toward an agreed to democracy:
it ain't there... as ever autumnal fruits make their
way toward the culinary redcarpet -
                   apples, pears....
     but the real ice brokers remain tangled in
the gnostics of dairy *****: you only see the *****
when the milk turns sour...
              and the two segregate
their cauliflower bergs and that pristine seethrough
        matrix -
then it's like watching the 1054 schism:
          aquasal herring
                               and aquadulci tench -
as painful as listening to my father speak english:
it's just ****** painful,
i write english and speak it like an Anglo
   and he speaks it like an Arab:
with me it's: left right left right left right
and his is an ancient form of actual Latin
              right left right left right left -
of the tongues that appropriated the Latin lingua
optics that weren't conquered it's the same as it was
for Seneca of Virgil, e.g. red beast / proof of all
scientific generic category principle: **** sapiens
                  upright man / bestia rufus -
and that's still orange beast - then aliq for yellow:
then liquid and runny khaki - a monetary equivalent
of money.
          but of the tongues
                      which is why i kept my mother tongue,
i can't imagine what would have been the case
had i not kept it intact... i'd be whitey boy bleached
into an anaemic Arian with those rubbery red
             lost for words rabbit crazy irises that
albinos sport when on the sociopathic treadmill:
that's a daily commute for most people.
i should have anticipated something better coming
out of a forced bad gateway message when
i tried to published and didn't save the outcry...
but it was never a reality when defined by a few
people... it always necessarily the many,
the market square, the hustle and bustle,
     then again few took to ****** to say love...
understandable: if something is called private
it's not called reality, because so many people
have so much **** to say in public that they
treat private life as a tabernacle -
reverse that and suddenly you find people
who possess a "voice for the multitude",
but not (not oddly enough) a thought -
ah the caring scream when not bound to
the horror genre of politics: it's too late!
               end here: a prior to rather than, a
desirably said to appease and conform:
by now we're all cited as having only said
an onomatopoeia of what words should sound like -
we're found hacking a door to shreds with
an axe, rather than merely curling our hands
so the knuckles can be used to knock on the door.
still, i made pumpkin soup today,
tomorrow i'll make a pumpkin risotto -
and the pumpkin is, rightfully, the halloween king
of all vegetables: i am not surprised it's the perfect
lampshade people leave outdoors -
hell of a thing to peel, a butternut squash
would have been simpler to make...
but for the first time in my life:
  i actually appreciate the colour orange...
as said: cooker orange is beyond that fluorescent
acidity of a citrus fruit:
  cooked orange is actually grand...
raw citrus orange?                and a handful
of creepy crawlies.
    funny how the spectrum necessarily made me
endorse a soup maker, rather than the next
big thing in the realm of toothpaste and mascara.

its a cold and broken sky
that shines its light tonight
and the snow on the ground
that slips into the night

My voice cracks my words fall
the floor turns to void
a broken hallelujah escapes
as I disappear beneath their ploy

It was hardly a JFK moment but if, like me, you remember what you were doing when you first heard a Spice Girls track, it may be hard to believe two decades have elapsed since the girl group released their debut single, Wannabe, in the dying days of John Major’spremiership. Together with Oasis, Blur and Blair they heralded a new dawn for Britain - selling millions of records while they were at it - before embarking on what turned out to be a lengthy hiatus just four years later. There was a brief reunion in 2007-8 but the question now is: how, if at all, will they mark their 20th anniversary this summer?

Sitting opposite me in a London hotel bar in Leicester Square, just across from where she co-hosts the Breakfast show on Heart FM withJamie Theakston, Emma Bunton - the one formerly known as “Baby Spice” - makes no secret of her hope that the “girls” (now all in their forties) will get their act together.

“We adore each other. There’s so much we’ve been through. I would love to do something,” she says. “I think we’d all quite like to do something, but it really is figuring it out. We all have such different lives. Mel B [Melanie Brown, formerly Scary Spice] lives in America. We’ve all got different managers.” Not to mention the fact they are all mothers now and their busy schedules include commitments such as school plays, which makes finding time for a reunion even harder.

It’s natural to wonder, too, if any jealousy simmers beneath the surface. Victoria Beckham’s star has risen exponentially since the group broke up, with her marriage to former footballer David, their children and her fashion line keeping the profile of the erstwhile Posh Spice higher than those of any of her former bandmates. Bunton insists she’s delighted for her though.

“When a friend does that well it’s incredible. She’s just hilarious and I know exactly what she’s thinking just by looking at her,” she says. “I see pictures and I go, ‘I know what she’s thinking about!’ I’m very lucky because I know the fun, sarcastic, brilliant other side to her as well.” The fact that Beckham invited Bunton to choose a dress for her 40th birthday in January would appear to support the picture she paints of their friendship.

When “Baby” joined the band in 1994 she was almost young enough to be in a school play herself. Now she has two babies of her own - Beau, aged eight, and four-year-old Tate - with her fiance, the singer Jade Jones, to whom she has been engaged since 2011. Although she could pass for 30, her woollen shawl, floral Kooples shirt and the glasses that frame her face give her the look of an elder stateswoman of pop.

“Wouldn’t that be amazing?” she agrees when I suggest a one-off gig at Wembley Stadium. “Fingers crossed. That’s something we’d really love to do.” While we talk, a phone rings in her bag. It’s Geri Halliwell, formerly known as Ginger Spice. Bunton ignores it. “I’ll speak to her after and tell her you suggested it,” she says of the concert idea.

Meanwhile there is her new early evening live TV show to focus on. In BBC Two’s Too Much TV, she pairs up with Rufus Hound, Sara *** or Aled Jones, reviewing and previewing what’s on the box. Her years of experience as a radio host have come in handy here, but the programme itself has reportedly suffered some disappointing audience figures.

Still, Bunton is pleased to be forming a female double act with ***. The phrase “Girl Power” - which she defines as “supporting one another in everything you do” - was famously central to the Spice Girls’ brand and is something she continues to draw on. “For me, it started with seeing my mum going back to college at 40, starting karate at 40. She just kept growing and I’ve really fed off that,” she says. “I want to grow as much as she did and still is. She was my first role model. Jade is brilliant, it’s just we [girls] have had to push a bit harder. As girls we’ve pushed things forward.”

Bunton was born and raised as a Catholic with her younger brother in Finchley, north London. Her parents worked hard to provide for their children but separated when she was about 11, which she struggled with. (“I don’t like change too much,” she says.) Until her father, a former milkman, recently moved to Ireland, she would visit him every Sunday. Privately educated at the Sylvia Young Theatre School in London, she was granted a scholarship when her parents could no longer afford the fees.

Though not one to dwell on failure, even she began to question herself when the rejections kept coming. “You’d think, ‘I’m just not good enough,” she says. It wasn’t until she auditioned to become the fifth member of the Spice Girls that her big break arrived. She was asked there and then to move in with the others in Maidenhead - and the rest is nineties pop history.

Part of the Spice Girls’ selling point was their girl-next-door image. While it could not be said that *** was removed from the equation - theUnion Flag dress Halliwell performed in at the 1997 Brit Awards left little to the imagination and many of Brown’s leopard print outfits were an exercise in cleavage-display - *** appeal was not the main draw. Yet even if looks weren’t the focus (wasn’t it all supposed to be about fun, girl power and attitude?) Bunton hasn’t always felt secure about her body image.

“Obviously [body shape] is such a big thing in this industry,” she says. “I’m 5ft 1in so I feel that sometimes being curvaceous is harder to carry off because I’m so short. But I’m comfortable. I’ve always been that kind of way. In the industry it is becoming a bit more difficult because everybody is so slight, it’s quite unbelievable. I don’t know how they do it.”

When she first joined the group she felt relaxed enough about her appearance, but went through “probably a very short stage when everything hit and there were pictures everywhere and you think, ‘Do I look OK?’” This faded, and having children has helped stop her worrying about this. “It’s something I just don’t take on board as much because I can’t,” she says. “But you’re being pictured every day or papped, so obviously there’s that pressure of hoping to look half decent in pics.”

Reflecting on how motherhood has transformed her, she goes on: “I used to be very self-absorbed, I’m sure, worrying about what I was going to wear to the next event or whether my roots were done,” she says. “I’ve changed as a person.”

So what about that long engagement? Will she ever get round to tying the knot? She and Jade will need their heads knocking together before they do, she says. “If we do, we’ll definitely elope,” she adds.

Career-wise, she remains ambitious. She has a small part in the forthcoming Absolutely Fabulous movie and would like to sing and act more, as well as branching out into comedy (she’s already been involved in Comedy Central’s Drunk History).

Pop culture doesn’t cast out the over-40s these days, so there’s no reason to think she won’t stick around. Nobody, after all, puts Baby in a corner.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015

Fitz
Fritz
Fido
Sandy
Spencer
Chaplain
Bernard
Jesse
Snoopy
Charlie
Charles
Fred
Freddy
Bones
Remmy
Ren­a
Reno
Tony
Julian
Julie
Frisco
Meghan
Addison
Robby
Buddy
Rudy
F­riedrich
Fredrick
Bernie
Rudolph
Adolf
Ferdinand
Rose
Cassie
Cassidy
Lee
Balto
Little *****
Allen
Alvin
Jake
Demi
Randy
Alex
Richard
Alexis
Kenneth
Ken­ny
Chris
Jose
Josey
Rodger
Moe
Joe
Emilio
Walt
Emily
Emma
Maddie
­Anna
Jafar
Aladin
Jasmine
Genie
******
Amber
Gracie
Ramen
Gordy
G­ordon
Jordie
James
Bucky
Huff
Manny
Sam
Samantha
Mary
Marie
Tila
­Rita
Cathy
Tammy
Mickey
Cam
Amelia
Rene
Jeb
Dan
Bagel
Tommy
Donut­
Bubbles
Blossom
Buttercup
Mark
Cody
Andy
Cristo
Andrea
Whiskers
­Mike
Bill
Billy
George
Geo
Joy
Mitch
Trigger
Tigger
Stephen
Archi­medes
Anya
Duncan
Nitro
Crash
Bub
Crystal
Egor
Bernadette
Cammy
T­immy
Antonio
Natasha
Natalia
Ivan
Abbey
Abdul
Carly
Aaron
Omega
F­inn
Nina
Debby
Tomato
Tabby
Artie
Archie
Noah
Kyle
Alfie
Alfred
Conrad
Conner
******
G­unner
Fry
Fries
*******
Constance
Connie
Frank
Fran
Candice
D­andy
Lucy
Lou
Louis
Quincy
Doogle
Dubie
Dakota
Ace
Casey
Barry
Te­rry
Trenton
Gabe
Laurie
Cornelius
Kabob
Sky
Skylar
Rufus
Louie
Ba­rton
Kimmy
Angel
Capri
Basil
Cy
Ruby
Emerald
Eleanea
Elenor
Barth­olomew
Jazz
Dreamer
Thunder
Topaz
Amethyst
Salsa
Meril
Dodo
Toto
­Eric
Barbera
Hannah
Katie
Zoey
Ben
Pinto
Squanto
Columbus
Columbo
Porgy
Bess
Clark
Savannah
Ken­dra
Marco
Leise
Toby
Trevor
Tresten
Treven
Adrienne
Caleb
Carlyn
­Ricky
Gibby
Donny
Han
Solo
Hans
Gabby
Dirk
Spot
Sebastian
Dee
Sco­oby Doo
Shaggy
Polly
Reginald
Burger
Steak Sauce
Ethan
Bradberry
Lucky
Fergie
Cheese
Boxer
Napoleon
Snowball­
Gerald
Jeremy
Benji
Gemma
Pal
Mal
Preston
Jack
Jackson
Molly
Mac­kenzie
Alexie
Alicia
Dora
Olivia
Salvador
Beast
Beauty
Oliver
Dal­e
Rim
Marley
Diego
*****
Bobby
Ralston
Zeke
Rooney
Plato
Cole
Nep­tune
Sailor
Frida
Rico
Dali
Veronica
Victor
Copeland
Swift
Riley
­Tubs
Lassie
Yo-yo
Harvey
Lemonade
Coke
Pepsi
Tanya
Camille
Token
­Laser
Beam
Seamus
Dorthy
Ian
Moby

saying ******* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.

Yo guess whos back???
Im nas-tradamus
Far from wack as i attack
Like mack 10 whistlin' in the wind
Penetratin' earthly skins  
Now take a deep breath
Hold ya wombs seal it up
But ya still going to the tombs
Mentally im half god half amazing
With the pounds of skunk.blazin'
Coolin' my glands under the ceiling fans
Countin' my rubber bands understand  
I been  a man since i touch birth
Didnt have the mirth so i increased my girth
Uh so lets get it on
If ya want some come get some
Tear ya back up with my 100 round drums
Tommy got murda mamis
From.Belize make tracks sneeze
When i bless it
The mic is scorching hot melting these lyrics
Enticin' thots
My style cant be denied
Im Neopoleon  your Rufus im ruthless
Check out his grill
My knuckles leave em toothless
Go to the denist im a menace
But the devil didnt make me do it
Ya blew it like a fuse ya confuse
Know the rules
I bring guns to knife fights
Grenade pens and bulletproof
Naw im daydreamin'
I dumped alot of *****
******* be tag teamin'
Tryna get me caught but i thiught
Ya knew ya crew been disabled
So go for the disablity social security aint collectin'
So try the temporary agency
Hip hop aint hirin' let the shots start firin'
Watch how many emcees life is expirin'
One man crew snipe the greatest
Poppin' cars to trucks til they ******* out
So mute all that hatin and debatin'
Before i put these bullets trhu ya snout
You can hate me!!!!


Since hip hop fell on her knees
Jew corporates pulled they ***** out
Emcees suckin'
And lost respect of what we used to fight about
The struggle is in an ultimate rebuttal
They rewriting our history its a mystery
First it was ****** ***** black
African American now lets retrace back?
To old days Nat Turner im a learner
Break the mentality of slaves
And the chains that ysed to shackle me
Yea i been that done that
From hustlers corners to keep a fat stack
Now im pushin' a Maybach
Turbo power im growin' sour every hour
I gain fame from lettin my enemies devour
Gun powder
Concave in the chest now ya blessed
Tell God i said hi or satan
Assistin' foes with more bullets than
Gary Payton sons of satan still waitin'
To attack but conscious keeps holdin me back
My tongue with saliva makin' rhymes like Mcygver  
Out the blue no clue as my lyrics stick to ya cells like glue
So test me this is a lifetime anthem
Throw y hands up with guns up
Make the clips throw up
Empty shells death dwells it aint hard to tell
That i was made a stick up kid  bailed from jail Lady liberty had eyes on me
Who whatta thought i would break the industry?
yo!! Do they know who we be?
I am DMX the sunshine when i flip my wrist with the gold rolex
So next ya talk **** about me
Say it real well until you fall in hell
Yea im something ridiculous  
Spit so venomous
leave nigguhs mentally  unconscious

Under the big old tree
I sit there quietly
Reading new book I found
Diving into world I thought I belong

Once, I was Hannah Baker
Sharing my secret story
This is my truth about you
What is your truth about me?

I envy Ponnyboy
He had lots of friends
And one true friend
A reason to stay gold in the end

And I know the feeling of Samantha McAllister
Looking for a place where you belong
A place where your voices are heard
I found my Poet's Corner

Then I dreamed just liked Lara Jean
That someday, I will find true love
Someone will help me conquer my fear
Someone who will give me life

But I guess I am Finch
Love will never save me
I keep on breathing
But I know will be drown

But just like Rufus and Mateo
Tho I know how I'm going to end
I don't want to meet it
I'm still afraid to die

“Lool, maybe I could come whisk you away”
He quipped

Be serious! I’d love to
A date, on a date with you,
Nothing too serious, of course.
Maybe lunch, dinner and discourse.
I’d love to watch you laugh over a meal!

....delete

Well, if you’re serious we could fix
Something. I think I like you and it’d be nice
To meet. Let’s do something, Maybe ice cream?
Rufus and bees? Or a movie?

...delete

“Lool, big head”
... Enter.

“Hehe” – he goes.

My grandfather was an ancient thing
not a person or a place to hold my head
because he was always busy filling it
with the imagery of his life.

From his past where he had to survive
laying still next to his solder friends
who still held their weapons
even when they could not take another breath.

or the time my grandmother had a stillborn child
it would of been my uncle, but instead Rufus went on ahead
before anyone got the chance to meet him
holding his breath just like the soldiers did.

His sister, whose name no longer reaches me
so I usually call her Mrs. Harmony
because when I was four I heard her sing
our "star spangled banner yet wave"
with her soldier brother, my grandfather
standing with his hand over her heart
as she began to hold her breath as well.

I did see my grandfather do
what all his family members did before him
and really he is the reason I say they are holding their breath
that was his...our way of coping with our love ones
who stopped speaking to enjoy a silly little game
and sometimes I wish he could speak up
so I could know if he's been watching all this time.

it must be one one of my favourite quotes,
given the thickness of the novel,
thick as a hefty loaf of bread...

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

and some for others: the liking toward music
playing is much more than
toward a woman moaning, subsequently snoring...

in a tight-fit straitjacket,
a women loses all the time when compared
to music:

       musica omni vincit consortium
                          sine opus femina enim

music wins all consort without a need for a woman

a                                                             "...
stressors galore...
                   when roger became the rabbit,
and the rest was the warner & co.
                  humming party imitating
atillas' yawn...
                               and the lost genghis
trip into movie...
              
    mort apparens in rufus; rufus vividae;
agricola in cataracta;

death apparent in red, the vivid red;
closure in a waterfall.

                porcus latine auxilium.

I am tired of trying to find
Words that rhyme,
Words to quantify
This meaning bereft in my chest.

Where are you now?
You promised to be here forever.
You said that nothing could steer you
From the love found within our bed.

Darling, I know that I’m a fool,
That you did well just to keep with my moods,
But now that I need you more than ever,
I have lost you to some art teacher.

He’s killed Rufus, and stripped me of art.
He has taken from me my constant,
An oxygen tank in this tear-gas foreign field;
Now my lungs are drowning in dread.

And all I can ask in this strange composure
Is where I went wrong in flesh surrender;
Did I not keep you warm through North-Eastern winds?
Did I fail to capture what you felt was the end?

As I sit front row amongst an abundance of lushness I accompany a congregation filled with long-term friends. The holy ghost is in Canis latrans. Taxidea taxus isn't really diggin' it. Mephitis mephitis came into service smelling a bit reckless. Procyon lotor is all over Lynx rufus's shoulder. Castor canadensis just don't give a ****. Neotoma cinerea haven't said a peep and Glaucomys sabrinus is the flyest I've seen in weeks. The tunes that the Warblers are singing is sweet, with the Hawks hitting notes all the way to the peak and you know the Great Horned Owl cadence had to be deep. The gospel put all California Poppy, Star Tulip and Western Pennyroyal to sleep. Now everyone quiet down, all I hear is the river and the wind, patiently waiting for Giant Sequoia to speak. Drum roll please? Pileated Woodpecker knows the perfect beat. The deepest sermon goes unspoken. Nature is the religion and the earth is church. Praises to God for his Kingdom translating his words.

I think the proof is in the air
For those who love and those who care.
So many things that we don't share
Hallelujah
ljm

Fall break came at the perfect time. And it's a memory I'll cherish forever -- waterfalls and falling leaves and sunshine and cold waterbottles and plaid flannel shirts named Rufus and milk bottles and miles of blue sky. Monday. Rain on my umbrella, smile for the camera. Tuesday. And then like waking up from a magical dream, blue carpets and textbooks and shifty-eyed girls in Ugg boots and my anxiety. Wednesday. Back to studying for midterms and I'll throw in a pair of borrowed shoes.

I've got hours to wait, so I went outside and Ron said "it's people like me and you who give a **** that'll get A's." Then I went back in and found a side hallway. I wrote down what he said and listened to the janitorial staff. She opened the supply closet and told her friend "come into my office" with a laugh. Five minutes later they came back out talking about how Jamie was ******* about them at nights but it looked to me that they were more ******* about Jamie, and whoever she is, she's apparently worthless. And I wonder if this is how to make friends, by chilling with the cleaning ladies. Actually, that would be a family tradition. Is this how you find your niche?

Now they've moved from talking about Jamie to school shootings and all the good cleaning closets to hide in. And I wonder if this is why I spent 17 years "sheltered", because I'd rather be safe than normal. I'm writing all of this in the back of my science notebook because when I write my fingers don't feel the need to pull at my scalp. Rifle my hair, maybe, but no snapping. And I have 45 minutes before I get another hour to wait.

Sometimes I walk by the art department and I always want to go in, but what would someone like me be doing there? I'm not an artist by any sketch of the imagination. But it's always dark in there and I wonder what goes on in that back hallway. Like this back hallway where I'm sitting with these collegiate white cinderblock walls. How much misery from the cleaning crews have they heard?

Everyone says I'll find my niche, but it's looking to me like all I'll ever find is empty corners and solitary benches. People are okay, but the only person I really have to fall back on seems to be myself.

"I never should have let you
   Let me go"
-Rufus Humphrey

When I look into the mirror
I imagine the size I want to be
As I look closer, all I see is me,
Losing my weight,
Loving myself more
It’s always on my mind
As I
Daily I struggle with my weight,
work harder to lose my weight
Still I give it all I got
All I see is me,
Losing my weight
Loving myself more

Staying consistent, humble, and meek
It’s a daily task changing the way I think and eat
All I see is me,
Losing my weight,
Loving myself more.

The days go by, the craving aren’t as bad
The more I lose my weight,
I don’t feel as sad
All I see is me,
Loving myself more

I’m comfortable with my size
And exercising is starting to come easy now
It’s not just what you eat,
It’s how you eat
As I’m losing my weight
Loving myself more

Truly I feel better about myself
Losing weight is more than the reduction of size,
It’s the way you live
And learning to put your pride aside

Written by Rufus Calvin Henderson

Buck the system
try to **** the system
and they'll find you in a field
filled with lead
dead.

Then they'll call it suicide,
no gun to be found but
hey
guns can run and hide
can't they?

We are being spied on
twenty four
seven,
satellite imagery follows
your trajectory
and every where you go
they know.

Rufus told me,
it's me talking fuckery,
which I think means
he doesn't believe me
but you do
don't you?

what a whacky weekend, it's finally over, a shift at the Romford ice rink watching Romford Raiders vs. Peterborough Phantoms, selling tickets, ones by card, others by cash, checking pre-booked ones... and then? the easiest shift... watching the game... i have to be honest: the first time i watched ice hockey live i was bored stiff... but then again i was on top of the stands looking down on the game... from a high place looking down? it's... a really **** sport... BUT... today i had more flexibility... i was next to the rink... i have to admit: to watch ice hockey properly you need to be really close to the ice... and compared to the Oxford United shift?! **** me... im never doing that ****** shift ever again! ten hours out of the house and for what? £35 quid? here i can wear black trainers, i don't need to wear a white shirt or tie... i "work" for 4hours and get paid for 5... plus? i can cycle here and be back before i know it... total time spent out of the house? maybe 4.5hours... plus at the ice rink might get a free hot dog like today and a free drink: plus as it happens in ice hockey, the whole play-stop routine the DJ will play some sample of a song, today i managed to hear a sample (donkey's years old - September Cry For You... i knew it but forgot it, but remembered the lyrics: you'll never see me again ¶but that's not about all of that... i was talking with my coworker about finishing our shift at Wembley yesterday, she finished much later... oh! it took me ages to get home! i only got home at 4am - i sort of blundered and replied: yeah, me too... she's quick to pick up lies - but didn't the trains work? oh no, they did. so how come you only got in at 4am? oh, i don't know (****, one little white lie will not pass her, she was already growing suspicious, i should have just told her the hypothetical truth that i managed to get home at after just 1am... and i would have, i got to Stratford and spotted that the Southend Victoria bound train was via Romford, and not via Shenfield... it was supposed to come in 5 minutes by the time i was standing on the platform, but suddenly it became delayed, a passenger was taken ill... it would take forever for the train to start again... the original plan was to go the brothel, but i figured: i might as well go home early, get some chicken on the way at Romford and catch the last bus home, get in early and write for a while... but then the ill passenger made me return to my original plan). ¶well an hour or two later i had to own up as to why i came in at 4am, so i told her: well, you know... the reason why i came home at 4am is because i had, a slight, ahem "detour"... she looked at me smiled and sort of giggled... oh: that sort of "detour"? yeah... the beautiful thing about this was that i gave no further explanations... maybe she figured it out, maybe she didn't...

I.

well... at it's not me scribbling with squint eyes after having
have to catch four night buses to come home from Wembley
from a shift at 4am... this time i stopped over
at the brothel...
i can't help myself:
i can hit the ultimate high but then follow up with
the lowest of lows...
i even managed to buy a t-shirt... ****'s sake...
what are the chances of a "tour" of "compensation":
paying tribute to a drummer...
with only two dates of tribute... today's currently the 4th...
i don't exactly: love love Foo Fighters...
they can't topple the pyramid of Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
but it's still so much better than
what i heard the previous night.. Garage...
i had to buy that £40 t-shirt... they were running low
on the one i really liked: the yellow one...
i bought the black one... waited...
soon the merchandise shops opened again and the yellow
one was made available once more...
oh man... it's 4am and it's not like i just took 4 night buses
to get home...
i took the tube from Wembley Park to Stratford and then...
plans changed twice... i was originally planning
to visit the brothel... then...
a Southend via Romford bound train was supposed
to come... o.k. forget the brothel...
but then... a passenger became ill on the train
and the train became delayed indefinitely...
**** me... off to the brothel i go...

it was sort of gladdening to have seen
    josh homme...
                 brian johnson... liam gallagher...
roger taylor... rufus taylor...
   brian may... who else was there?
brian mccartney... the pretenders, i.e. chrissie hynde...
i had the best view in the stadium...
at the far end opposite the stage... fifth level Wembley...
in the disabled (accessibility sector)...
easy... boring... 12 hour leg numbing shift...

no... i don't really like the Foo Fighters...
i like Andrea though, our supervisor... this tiny little
creature with spectacles that looked
so quirky lifting her spectacles up
and looking at a page when writing like she might
have looked at bacteria through a microscope...
darling: she called me...
      yes: the the great big world would eat me up
with a yawn and i'd still reply: yawn great big
world... should i meet her ever again:
a woman of my implant idealism... of borrowed books
and failed loves...

i have a t-shirt to prove that i was at this gig...
that's all i have... but i don't think i was there...
i think i was looking for my shadow in Andrea's shadow...

i'm pretty sure someone died...
oh man... going to the brothel this tired is always a bad
idea... more unprotected ***...
but this time Khedra was different...
she kept whispering: **** a blonde little baby into me...
half asleep but nonetheless with a *******
i was thinking: what?!
three aphrodisiacs... the proper cider... exercise and
excess tiredness...
a complete ****-up of the senses....

even now it's coming to 5am and i'm thinking about
that *******'s slapping of a shift at the ice-rink
tomorrow from 4 through to 8...
i never thought that ice-hockey could be just a boring
sport to watch...
i.e. where's the puck?! hockey to me is a bit like
monotheists in prayer...
lunatics... at least the pagan Hindus throw spices
and more spices around to cover themselves in excess of
what can be sometimes missing in nature...
but monotheistic reasoning for procrastinating
within the confines of labouring the bend and beating
of prayer to an otherwise deity that demands
the "prayer" of "thought" rather than
the deification through a "prayer of the body"
and use of the tongue...
    monotheism ought to never be about pseudo-paganism
of procrastination with idle words on idle
tongues of idle bodies... the matrimony of lunacy
of bending objects...
monotheism is a sort of telepathy...
a telekinesis...
prayer should be abolished in monotheism...
as well as all the lunatic deifications of monotheism...
esp. in Islam and Judaism...

                monotheism ought to start to equate
thinking with speaking...
by that standard... collapse it furthermore...
the freedom of thought is not the same as the freedom
of speech... in that writing: with writing being
the extension of thinking: the medium of writing
is not an invitation to speak, but rather an invitation to think!
monotheism speaks like the pagans speak...
too much... monotheism has as many mantras
as polytheists have...
the only difference is that the monotheists have
abstracted their deities as cryptic language structures...

in the crypts of the ciphers:
one can find at least one decipher... some sacred word...
either over-used: e.g. blah-lah
or under-used: the acronym yhwh...
of Æ... when Adam was a Siamese twin with Eve...

i'm sort of... half blinking... i have these half closed
eyes: i'm squirming and pretending to blink....
i lay mountains in a single valley
and later called this same mountain range
a witness of the canary's song that could
encompass a folding of a cave to boil a river
to a standstill: from a sea create a river
and from a lake a mirror...
what miser ******* i'm thinking:
thank god i'm simply thinking it rather than speaking
it in arena of rhetoric...

let clouds be puffs of negative-salt clusters...
negative-salt clusters so that they can absorb
"positive-water" into their invisible gobs...
and... like seagulls... carry the food-stuff over
kilometres of agony... from sea toward land...
from rivers to the lakes...
and then back again... from the lakes toward
the seas...

II.

i must have been really tired yesterday, i just abandoned
part I. altogether: i don't want to know what i've written,
i'm not rereading it... i'll have to rewrite some aspects
of it...
                 today i feel livelier and actually awake...

1. i figured out the brothel, finally! it took me some time!
half an hour sessions... no more those 1 hour sessions...
why? i can go more often, ergo i can **** all of them in the brothel,
so much so that i will have to start looking for
a new brothel... one hour sessions don't work anymore:
if i am to please a woman who i never met,
i either will or i won't... and that will be within the confines
of half an hour...

2. my three favourite aphrodisiacs are:
(a) cider + a little bit of whiskey + a cigarette or two
(b) exercise
(c) tiredness... my god... every time i came back
from a very long shift i would try to relax before
writing by jerking off... each and every time i would
get a ******* like clockwork....
i guess tiredness switches the mind off completely
and you feel more and more uninhibited...
mix that with aphrodisiac (a) and made (c) comparable
to the effects of (b)... hey presto!

a rare moment for me... original thinking while sitting
and listening to my father dictate to me
the invoice i'm just writing
myślnik: i.e. dash or hyphen (-)
od nowego akapitu / wiersza:
            from a new / "poem"
it's not actually a new "poem", it's more a new verse...
i.e. it's lazy speaking because it's not
actually akin to the sign applied in medieval
times to use up as much paper with
an indicator for a new paragraphs
employing the ¶ (the blind P): come to think of it,
i think i'll employ it in the italic section of the intro.
i just added... them... the pilcrow...
it was used to use up as much paper as was available...
these old texts never wasted space...
but a revelation came when writing my father's invoice:
thank god i'm an employee and i do not have
to write any invoices or do any tax self-returns...
of all the people employed i don't know whether anyone
else is in my position...
but the revelation came with...
i remember my English teacher: the Scot didn't teach us
much English... he introduced me to jazz and a love
for Led Zeppelin rather than Black Sabbath...
but i remember his one major lesson:
you, don't, start, a, new, sentence,
with: a, conjunction, namely: and!
you can't stand a sentence with And...
what is the semi-colon for?

after all, what's the semi-colon in Arabic?
either the letter(s) dh (the H is a surd borrowed
from the name of the Hebrews' deity)
                  ذ or Z(ed)               ز    -
aren't these semi-colons?! ; ذ ز
                                                               ­ ?

but i had a split consciousness: the cat that was sleeping
in my bed decided to jump out of the window and
sit on the roof of the kitchen...
while i was typing the invoice...
when i got back into the bedroom he was still
sitting on the roof... i have an invisible leash
on my cat... the moment he saw me perched
on the windowsill: i smoked one cigarette: he noticed me...
he jumped straight back into the room
and is current sleeping on my bed...

a split consciousness? what song to listen to?
the original i started with? September cry for you?
Collie Buddz Sensimillia?
Stephen Marley hey baby / iron bars
or Combichrist sent to destroy?
obviously the foremost...

i had to scribble this note down in between writing
the invoice:

/ aesthetic:
                                                      ­   look up Gothic
    bl.... blah blah. Also...                  a script and ᚱᚢᛖᛋ
                  no!                                       ­                       Σ
b (scribbled out)
"           "          "   ; also

                                          via example of And at beginning
                                             of (a) sentence
                                             is a massive
                                                         ­     no-no! /

some Copernican rotations in place... notably
via the Runic E (ᛖ) and the Greek S (Σ)
and obviously the work that went into crafting
the Roman S and ...
huh? i never heard about this 'un... the sigma-reflection...
what's this?

                           σ² ≡ E

id est: a twofold reflection on one plane
produces the operation of identity;
     any planar molecule has at least one mirror plane.

ugh... coding... something for termites...
    <p><var>a²</var>
                                   and what modern poet dabbles
in STEM methodology? people are still complicated?
or just plain ******* daft... having created so many complications
of their / adding toward their lives outside of themselves?
i think it's the latter...
there's no longer a need to concern oneself for
"being there":

Heidegger was slow on picking up on what
Zhuangzi talked about beyond his grave:
   the... grammatically correct "concern": or rather...
in the eyes of the Chinese rather than the German
concept of "there being" as that of concern...
the Chinese variant was always "being there" with
a sense of non-doing... some thing are unchangeable...
yes, pressed by the continuum of un-change-ability...
you can't alter the sun or the gravity the planets are fed
by it...
  to orbit...
               unlike Egyptian hieroglyphs... Chinese hieroglyphs
are ideograms... they are more than sounds:
they are as simple as sounds of letters...
whether alone or coupled... but they are also IDEAS...
ergo, they are ideograms...
"being there" is one of these...

                           在: zai... roughly, i'm not an expert...
i'm a: LA-IK... but Heidegger preached the wrong sort
of thinking, if Tao is the correct sort of thinking:
this is the contention (from the Chinese prespective)
against the German interpretation of da-sein...
i'm not concerned: that would be very Christian of me...
i'm not a fraud of F.O.M.O. (fear of missing out):
that takes concern... i know i can't change the world:
i can only change myself in order to grow into myself...

ANY AND ALSO are grand examples of when
the semi-colon ought to be used in a sentence,
a semi-colon is a follow-up to a thing already stated...
... yes... i use that puncture marker when
i'm following up one thought with another...
it's not aesthetically pleasing, but then again i am not wasting
any paper or using a type-writer...

but i have (i've) seen too many books in print
where a sentence opens up with such: DISGRACE
(the negation of grace, the prefix dis-, id est)

it figures... i'm too intelligent to **** neuro-typical women...
i need to **** prostitutes...
i'm not even paying myself a compliment...
i walked back from the shift peering into the houses...
ageing couples... one on one armchair
another on another armchair... living the easy:
mortal life... oh **** me...
alone again... the children flew their nest...
just waiting for a spot in the old people's home:
Protestantism is so cruel when it comes to old age...
it's spectacular when you're young!
me? i'm sticking around...
i applied the Japanese method of *******...
sure... no long partner: no need to talk...
at least the Japanese are unabashed about
complications of housing... at least they're open
about the ラブ ホテル (rabu hoteru)...
spares me the need to **** prostitutes: but no!
oh no! no no!
i need to **** prostitutes to avoid my makeshift
boney **** of a hand!
i need to eat, i need to sleep, i need to ****...
i don't care what the WASPS spew from over the "pond":
i stopped listening a long time ago...

hey! Darwinism preached adaptation...
i'm adapting! it's called... have you heard the term?
E-VO(h)-LOO-SH-ON?!
i know it's spelling evolution...
but you hardly hear the T to begin with...
well... if God made Poland his playground
(according to Norman Davis)
i'll just make England MY... mein SPIELPLATZ!
sorry... not England: ING-LEASH!
this is my playground!
                  
                                 well if God can make Poland
his playground for the Turks, the Swedes,
the Russians and the Germans to pretend to tickle
and juggle... i'll make his favorite tongue:
my... playground... i''ll make sure as many people
come to London as are readily available...
let's see, "god"... who's going to start having
a *****-fit... i can watch the natives become minorities...
don't worry... i'll fit in just plain dandy with the other
minorities: they won't even know where the ****
i'm from... they'll think i'm English but when i tell them
that i'm not German they might have a second
thought: why have so many Arab names
popped up as "friends" on my facebook?!

that's the thing about Slavs... English speaking people
associated Orcs with Africans...
well... where's Mordor? East?!
last time i checked... are these people going to be throwing
pronoun-grenades at the Russians as the Russians
starve Europe from a gas supply?!
oh sure sure... the "worship" of "correct" pronoun
usage is already keeping me warm: the warmth of WRATH...
maybe i didn't have children because i thought that:
my natural intelligence wouldn't be passed down
and they would become products of their
environment and peer pressure?!
i think so... i think i refrained from having children
because i thought: mein gott! and what if they might
be swayed by idiots?! guttrauer (good grief)...
imagine!
- but as i was walking back from the shift...
i noticed these old couples... me god, their ageing so quickly...
i sticking put... my parents invested in me...
now i'm going to invest in them...
i'm not moving... i'm not going to rent...
i'm sitting on money! i'm sitting on Smaug's ransom!
i'll keep them youthful for as long as i can...
they will not be sitting in two armchairs alone
before a t.v. with pictures of their children and grand-children
hanging on the wall...
they'll just have to deal with the insolent drinking
alone little me...
i'll entertain them... i'll do the household chores...
i'll cook for them... i'll do the d.i.y.:
they're not going to be packaged like ******* mushrooms
into the dark into an old people's home...
and whatever women that comes into my...
ah... ah ha ha ha... what woman? for a relationship?!
relationship with: what, exactly?!
i already have sway over a woman's body whenever i feel
like it: whenever i feel like...
do women have intellect? i.e. talk about what?
other people... i've heard it before...
you couple with a woman and all she wants to do is
talk about how happy she is when she's with you seeing
other women being single: how "superior" she is...

what conversation? the best conversations i ever had
were with strangers or when i started to write...
when i untangled my thinking into not-thinking...
i wouldn't appreciate a life of simply being lazy
existentially... this is not the right sort of time to be lazy
existentially: why? becoming existentially focused
by the simple demand of external forces that force
you to beg for explanations: just like the 20th century
proved is no beginning or, for that matter:
an encapsulation of: what?
do people really think literacy is omnipresent?!
if it truly was... we wouldn't have people scratching
letters in graffiti mode on brick walls like
those of Lascaux... sure... the caves imploded:
but the skyscrapers exploded...

how times change...
back in the day, even Milan Kundera lamented
the sayings of Neville Chamberlain...
what were those?
how horrible, fantastic, incredible it is that
we should be digging trenches and trying
on gas-masks here because of a quarrel in
a far away country between people of
whom we know nothing
that explains a lot... Czechoslovakia is
just a little bit nearer Ukraine... Ukraine is on the map!
far far way: i'm pretty sure the British became
confused by digging the Suez canal:
India suddenly became West of Ireland...
when it came to navigating ships!

that's the thing about the Slavs... we'd sooner start
a war amongst ourselves than succumb
to some Germanic festering wound of the intellect:
pronouns! blah blah ha!
the Germanic consolidation project for Europe:
hell! bring the entire world to our shores!
that's an Germanic intellectual starvation project!
the Slavs, like Orcs: would sooner fight among
themselves than tempt the idiot cross-eyed
serpent of the Germanic Twilight of Intellect...

today i learned the reason why i was so attracted
to that middle-aged woman from London Stadium
who looked like a frightened doe: in head-lights...
i was coupled with her at the Basildon shift...
isolated... i had to talk to her...
       Chill-y... she's actually Turkish... i would have
never known! i like Turkish and Romanian girls...
hell... if English girls have this post-colonial
black fetish against their fathers...
i'll pick one (fetish) for myself... wait... i have one...
we're good... we're equal...
now? more! more! more!
i need to fry my mind with as much ****-box-*****
as possible!
i'm not stopping: something was woken in
me that should be sleeping a tight monogamous sleep...
that's not, going to happen...
like all the beautiful girls that turn out to
be prostitutes: akin to nature's sake:
everyone would love to live through
seeing a tornado, a daffodil blossom...
******* a beautiful girl...
a man with many arrangements:
i don't want to be selfish...

last night was just, plainly, weird...
i can't remember the last time i was asked so many
questions...
Khedira asked me: so... did you prefer Michaela...
who? the short plump girl with great ****?!
the blow-up *** of pump?
or did you prefer the taller girl?
i'm just asking, as a friend... the former...
something was afoot...

the wind blows in cold into my bedroom...
it's a welcome breeze... it folds itself around
my ankle prior to strangling me around the neck
while kissing my forehead...

the glorious 4 were sitting there...
the one with the glasses was incredibly talkative...
Mona... Mina? does it matter... she was wearing
glasses...
where have you been? i ripped off my
bands... showed her: Wembley... the Taylor Hawkins'
tribute concert... oh... dearest Adriana...
that supervisor... please don't call me darling...
not when we're working... my name is enough...
out of the 4 i chose the predictable non-****** ****..

as you do...

i haven't seen Khedra for a while... the started with her
usual *******: thank **** that she doesn't charge me
for unprotected ***... either oral or vaginal...
i felt sort of relaxed-tired from not having to put
on the rubber... but we Polacks and Turks are
cleanly people: we wash ourselves regularly...
i can't remember the last time i *******
a *****-load into a woman while she whispered
into my ear that she wanted a blonde baby:
eating and burning my blonde mustache and love-bruise
of hair growth (catching up to the length of
my length of beard... some ******* quarrel between
a boy and a girl while i was leaving Wembley,
he breaks the argument... direct her sight toward
me with: i love your beard! my bib?! i.e. t-shirt...
forty quid... i'm later informed he was talking about
my beard and not my t-shirt... what?!
i've just spent 6 hours in an environment
where you have to don ear-plugs...
what?! i can't her you! EAR PLUGS!
you can still hear the music, but you can't sense
the vibrations! bib?! 40 quid... oh! right... oh! beard...
yeah... thanks... it took 3 years to grow)

but i had to **** Khedra firt... i slapped her ***...
she slapped me... i wish she slapped my face...
i deserved it... i was asking permission without asking
permission: oh... Mina looks lively...
the one wth the glasses... she's happy...
how about we have a *******...
that's the second time i've bee asked to have a *******...
i know Khedra could make a ******* magical...
seriously... i watched as she harked up some bad
*******...
next time i told her... before she gulped and swallowed
an "oyster" of my missing *******...
2nd ******* *******... well... **** me...
i'm not exactly readied to disembody myself:
quit certainn limbs: on a whim...
who's paying? of course i'm paying!
i'm not paying for food! i'm paying for the *******!
dating is such a 20th century sort of past-time...

people: get with the times!
the 20th century requires closure:
you're not giving it!
   i told her: next time... next time...
sure... you and Mina can please me...
i hope this second ******* will be much better than the frist...
i'd love to see you two kissing...
before competing for the oyster Olympics
of slapping ****...

me god... first she ****** me off then she decided:
you did enough work arching over me in the missionary
position... i'll ride you...
women are strange that way...
they speak during *** like men might speak
during sleep...
what i heard...
what didn't i hear? i'm sure as **** knowledgeable
not hearing any lies...
i don't pay for lie... i pay for ****....
after she finished her oral ***
and climbed onto me and told me to look into
the mirror...

i was thrilled with warm-shivers...
it wasn't an ******...
but close enough...
           she was stalling... shivers...
shivers: she was stalling a ******...
******-lost *** is... is what it is...
i was her parterened self re-partnered...
he clicked: a wet ***** a hard-on ****
of an uncircumcised phallus...

upon insertion? you always aim below
the floral patterns of the ****...
of the *****... you aim an inch above the ****
at the root of the ****...
it's a bit like undoing a woman's bra...
inserting your "weapon" into a woman's
"shield"... sword-sheath-sword-sheath...
metaphorical, "metaphorical": of course...

but she did say: you taste all of them!
don't me mind! if i'm readying myself...
you choose another: choose another!
have as many women as you please!
don't feel obliged to choose only me!
well: doesn't love have to be shared?!
i can't be selfish! i can't just love one woman
when so many women are left loveless!
can i? i must love as many woman as are readily
available!
if i find boy exclaiming: i love your beard, mr.
i'm pretty sure the women are tediously shy
about a great number of details about me!

die forderungen von dies nacht ar fertig!
the demands of this night are finished!
ein tag kann gewinnen sie mit
morgen sonnenaufgang

                                              alle­ mit morgig verheiße.