It all disappears
replaced by a phantom,
the flickering light of a coal miners lantern casts its shadow along the black halls and it all disappears.
Bevan would spin in his grave knowing his lads could not save what remained of his dream,
and in the lean light of lamplight the nightwatch calls midnight,
and it all disappears.

We were born into a world that exploded with light emitting diodes,and nuclear power,turbines that whine in constant revolution,
a green world, a clean world, a world fit for tomorrow where the future is born from the ashes of sorrow and these tears we would borrow from the seeds that we sow ,
and it all disappears in the fears of the many,of those, who if they had any hope,have it no more,where the door is locked and the bolt is drawn against this brave new dawn,and sometimes it feels like I never was born ,
but created from eggshells and no one tells me that I'm wrong.

Cracked open my breath breaks away, and the inside exposed,peeled like the petals that rose on some bloom,the shrivelling doom, a vast mushrooming cloud,
and it makes me feel proud,
as it all disappears and we all fade away.

chocolate fireguard, teapot,
or fender, icecream sofa, dry sea
or wet towel, glass hammer,

waterproof teabag, newspaper
raincoat and umbrella, lead parachute, ashtray on a motorbike,

handbrake on a canoe,
vote in a dictatorship,
loudhailer to a deaf mute,
grief at a wedding,

****** in a monastery.
inflatable dartboard,
spoon in a knife-fight,
screen door on a submarine,

wooden soap, shortbread tires,  
knitted light bulb,
bread boat, plasticine wire cutters,
paper hole punch, water hat,

custard floorboards,
ceiling tiles made of gravy,
portrait of a bowl of soup,
a stone cigarette,

syrup knickers, hole in my bucket,
plastic oven, wax truss,
liquorice bridge,
false teeth made of soap,

lemonade roof,
jelly boots,
jam cardigan,

paper bicycle pump,
ice-cream saucepans,
soluble drain pipe,
packet of rubber nails,

see-through mirror,
revolving basement restaurant
roll-on hairspray, rubber pencil,

****** with a hole in it,
limp ****, pockets on a lettuce,
**** on a fish, lolly pop van in Hell,

one-legged man in an ****
kicking competition,

meaningless life,
unnecessary death,
forgotten words and deeds,
ignored needs,


this poem.

When you are a young white boy
You learn that "God" loves everyone
And you should too because
Everybody matters.

Then, you find out by yourself that,
What they actually meant,
Was that "God" treats everyone equally -
Nobody matters.

We are all equally irrelevant.
Just vessels awaiting our white sheets.

Sometime later you learn that,
While nobody matters, it is the loudest
Voices that have the least to say -
Idiots clatter their saucepans during evening discussions.

So as the blue, white, and red shine brightly across the world
While the Eiffel Tower remains silenced by tragedy,
It is the deafening strains of the bandwagon we hear
Struggling to cope with its passengers,

While the repeated explosions of idiots
Continue to clatter their saucepans all over the world
And the Facebook ramblings and Twitter chirps
Of disillusioned folks who didn't ever
Learn that their toys don't matter.
That their race or gender or religion doesn't matter.

Nobody, myself included, seems to grasp
The concept that we are all irrelevant,

Nobody, except those awaiting
Identification and burial,
Those who are comforted
By candles, flowers, and white sheets,
Who are whispering in the wind
The same question that eludes us all:

"Why is the world full of hate and evil men?"

And maybe it is in the acceptance
Of a spiteful "God", the acceptance
Of a mean, angry, vengeful pig of a "God",
A "God" who hates... Or maybe
It is in the asking of that very question:

That whisper in the icy November wind
That burns your hands at football matches
Or sitting outside in restaurants,
That makes them matter a great deal.

A mountain.
Its growing by the minute.
Bigger and bigger still.
Increasing in magnitude.
Plates and cups and cutlery.
Saucepans and a lonely wok.

An avalanche brewing in a secluded space.
River flows over the kitchen sink.
Daughter needs to wash up,
at least that's what I think.
Sink is overflowing.
One almighty crash.
Lots of broken china.
Surrounds the base of never rest.
Another excuse to avoid it.
Hey presto.
The daughter is gone in a flash.
(C) Livvi

There's a baby crying
from another room
a dog barking
from across the road

Helen opens her eyes
to her bedroom
her mind focuses
as much
it can
in morning's light

her younger sister
sleeps next to
her mouth open
eyes closed
hands resting on top
of the blanket

what day is it?
Helen asks herself
she calculates
Saturday yes Saturday

she smiles
no need to get up
just yet
she turns away
from her sister
and looks
at the wall
at her side
with green flowered
wall paper
torn in places
where her sister
has ripped it

she has to ask her mum
about the cinema
Benny said to go
but she wasn't sure
her mum would let her
or could afford
for her to go

I'll pay for you
Benny had said
the previous day
at school
I've got some
pocket money still

but she couldn't
just say yes
without her mum
knowing or agreeing

she sits up
and looks
at her sister sleeping
and gets up
and stands
on the cold floor
and goes to the window
and looks out

her mum is up
and in the kitchen
she can hear
saucepans being used
and her mum talking

she gets out of her bedroom
and along
to the kitchen/wash-room

what's got you out of bed
on a Saturday?
her mum asks
making porridge

Benny's going
to the cinema
and asked me to go
Helen says
pretending
lack of interest

does he now
and what
did you say?

Helen looks
at her mum's
broad beam
of backside
and tight
head of curls

said I'd ask you
Helen replies

did you now
well now you've asked

Helen waits
unsure of the answer

how much is it
to the cinema then?

Benny said
it's 6d
he did say he'd pay
but I said
I wasn't going to
accept his charity
(she hadn't
but it sounded good)

don't be too proud
of charity girl
you may need it
one day
her mum says

can I go?

her mum stirs
the saucepan of porridge

ok
but don't
make a habit of it
I'm not made
of money

Helen beams
and hugs her mum's
wide waist
and kisses her hip

get on with you
and get washed
and dressed
her mum says

and Helen
full of happiness
take off her nightgown
and washes
in the sink
of soapy water
her thoughts racing
around her head
like a cat chasing
a mouse
all over
a large
many roomed
house.

i shifted my preferences greatly, i've move away from a certain stimulant, namely? caffeine, i've abandoned it completely in the form of coffee, this one afternoon i reached my fourth cup having began drinking it in the morning: i felt like my brain was trying to jump out of my head through my forehead: a headache without a headache: strangely possible... i prefer nicotine these days: obviously i smoke less, in order to make this poison more potent, but it works just as well if not better than caffeine: since the first cigarette of the day, after a night's "fast" (i.e. sleep) gives you the disorientating buzz, whereby an awakening stimulation kicks-in...

Wennigton village near Rainham burned to the ground,
Socrates hated the sophists, Ezra Pound
hated the Taoists... me? i hate the sceptics...
pretentious thinking-they're-clever ***-wipes...
i hate the sceptics with a passion:
i don't mind scepticism: i just hate the sceptics...
i can be sceptical in a microcosm about a lot of things:
usually traffic: at a roundabout... whether or not
i will gave enough "boot-licking" strength in my feet
to make it... but scepticism soon dissipates
in me and i just: lunge into the traffic...

even with all the past news about idiotic junior doctors
who were pulled under trucks and died
because they thought cyclists were the Hindu sacred
cows of the traffic hierarchy...
i have a different approach: cyclists can make the best
traffic shepherds... literally...
i've had about 3 motorists shout at me from
their windows... gnats...
you think i didn't speed up to them and start shouting
back?
one good example... i think he was trying to impress
his girlfriend in the passenger-seat...
by the time i caught up with him
   she noticed i was mad as a boar who was fed
beetroots instead of truffles...
'come on *******! mouth off me one more
******* time! stop the car and have a fight!'
****... she already pulled up the window... so i cycled
even more ferociously until i passed them and
turned around and pulled out the middle-finger
weapon of mute expression that's easily to read
if you know what it means...

of all the motorists: there's always one ****-sure idiot:
who's probably popping erectile-dysfunction
pills to sooth his hurting ego...
ego... wow! on my bicycle today i was experiencing
something weird...
it was an IN-BODY experience...
my ego was having a conversation with my ego...
usually ego undermines...
when cycling: oh i can't go on i can't go on blah blah...
but this time round my ego was talking to my ego...
ego (a) was saying the above: that my body
can't take the strain...
but ego (b) was saying: shut the **** up...
this idiot decided to take this route: of all days...

my god! after so many years of drought... the heat-waves...
i went for lunch with my mother...
she drank a Stella Artois and had fish and chips
while i had a Guinness and a burger & chips...
we talked... oh... right... so this is what potentially
dating feels like? you go out with a woman
and talk over food?
                                thank god it was my mother:
i couldn't stomach doing with with a potential partner:
what a ****** cultural artifact of the 20th century...
**** that...
so you go to a restaurant and you talk over food...
in the meantime people do this while also
profiling themselves prior... their interests...
their dislikes... it's all a priori...
and then... it's like reading a menu...
                            you already know everything you'd
otherwise like to find out through
conversation and all the quirks of: conversation
but instead you have profiling: so you already know
what a person likes or dislikes...
can i just eat alone, in peace?
   sure... if my mother asks me to have lunch with her...
but we have seriously things to talk about...
her fathers death... my grandfather's death...
familial estrangement...
with her mother my grandmother:

i didn't know my paternal grandparents...
they abandoned my father so i abandoned a thought
of them...
they're like grey ghouls of a white night of
St. Petersburg... come the zenith of June's longest day...
but we talked an anchor-topic... a sinker...
i didn't just lose a grandfather: i lost a friend...
a tear built up in my eye: glass! glass! think of glass!
thank god: i didn't cry...
the word grandfather coupled with the word friend
is heartbreaking in the right context...

i was getting my root-canal treatment done
when i saw him last...
and then... one month later... gone...
what really hurt? that ***** of a grandmother didn't even
bother to call me to tell me something
was wrong... oh sure... she called me...
the day before he died...
i would have been at his bedside the moment
****-hit the fan...
    my hatred for women: my "hatred"? it sort of imploded...
it reversed itself...
hell... if you get a chance to hate your grandmother
for that sort of trickery... what are you going
to do? me? i just decided it was about time
to love prostitutes...
these creatures who are supposedly least deserving...
and? oh **** me: i'm having a ******* hell of a time
stealing kisses from them...

****'s sake: if someone is dying you tell people that
are your family!
no wonder i didn't think about having children
of my own: given my family's history:
it wouldn't look pretty...
i think there's a curse on my family lineage...
but sure: i can go on a lunch "date" with my mother...
there's nothing Oedipal about that...
is there?
                          i don't think so: if you think so you're (a)
weird... oh...
           but do the same thing with a woman
i'm trying to court into bedroom fun?
   oh no... that's not happening...
*** first... dinner after... i can't **** on a full stomach...
i need one bottle of cider and three sips of
whiskey and a cigarette or two...

seriously! it's an artifact of 20th century mating strategies!
anyone see a man on a horse
dressed up as a refrigerator, i.e. in full body armour
anywhere soon? maybe: sooner?!
i don't... the dynamic has changed... apart from one...
the eternal: the archetypical one:
the one i'm already suckling at...
oh... pristine! it's that expression of kissing
your index middle fingers and thumb
   joined up... kissing them and pursing your lips
and "smooching": i can't write this sound...
an onomatopoeia would be a waste of time...
and while kissing and making that "smooch"
releasing the fingers into an unfold...

                     hold on... what was i talking about?
i learnt this method from my English teacher
at Canon Palmer Catholic School (i'm not catholic...
you sort of have to be CONFIRMED to be catholic...
i was baptised unwillingly, i gave no consent)
                   Ser Tom-as Bunce! Scot... Glaswegian...
he taught by digression... oh man: he was an expert
digressionist... that should be an actual noun in
the Oxford Standard Dict. he digressed a lot...
                         his way of speaking? i think... i'm trying
to imitate by writing... oh forget that Beatnik cut-up
technique... i'm not stitching random things together:
i'm not the origins story of Tristan Tzara pulling out newspaper
clippings out of a top-hat as a Swiss counter protest
to the first world war...
i'm digressing... ooh... it's like that scene from the Lion
King with the three hyenas... DIGRESSING...
i'm DIGRESSING... say it again said one hyena to another:
MUFASA! DIGRESSION! ooh... gives me the ******* chills...

****... i've already lost the plot...
precursor summary...

- familial estrangement
- running with Justine in the rain
- cycling in the rain
- some sort of feeling
- yeah: now i know... the whole modern dating introspection
put me off course...
- there's still a cat, persisting to sleep in my bed...
- what time do i start tomorrow's shift?
4pm? it must be, it's a Thursday...
i'll finish by 11pm... eh... plenty of time to
go back to the brothel and sweet plump plum of a Michaela...
i seriously don't know what awoke my adoration
for these plump plum women...
yeah: i know... all those Renaissance paintings...
all the women were: over-nourished...
- i hate chocolate... but... if i make mint-chocolate
obviously i will not mind adding a few dark chocolate chips...

(intermission, refill, cigarette)

nicotine and the art of light-thinking...
everything about gustave doré etching of
the fall of Lucifer screams at me
to couple it with Muse's Stockholm Syndrome...
a whirlwind of gravity...
i sometimes feel it in my head...
most of the time in my groins:
my stomach is able to digest stake Tartare...

a holy trinity: Dürer... Doré...
   hmm... who was the third? i know there was a third...
painter: obviously... Rodin?

never mind... today was beautiful...
i wasn't expecting it to rain...
i'm used to cycling in hail...
little pebbles of ice hitting your body as if:
***** on the ready: pinch pinch pinch...
but this was different... a summer thunderstorm...
the rain so great by volume i overtook
uncertain motorists pulling in through lack of vision...
it was glorious: after all these heat-waves...
my session began with a cider... reclining on the fake
grass i installed with my ginger "behemoth"
(master and margarita? probably my favourite book,
no... Stendhal's the crimson and the black)

we chilled... he sneaked into my arm pit...
folding himself like a larva of a caterpillar...
grunting...
see? cats and prostitutes alike...
i'd love to see Muse live...
only for a few songs... well... a whole bunch of songs...
who was that third person i was thinking
of in that holy trinity?

Dürer... Doré... oh... wait... maybe i wasn't thinking
about a third person... who did i prefer?
the latter... although: neither are competing...
it's just a cheap-gimmick of making comparisons
of: well: whast's already available...

but the rain? splendorous! awakening!
i was the only cyclist: цyбał
left on the street... manic peddling....
i didn't listen to the weather-forecast...
me lying on the fake-grass with Quorus was
enough to justify my solipsism
that gave me energy to peddle in the adversity...
of rain that obstructed my vision....
but my god... it felt glorious...
after the heat-waves... getting drenched so much...
it reminded me of a certain summer
in Poland...
when my maternal grandmother was still
alive: while the patriarch of my maternal
side of the family died...

it was me and my auntie: we were of similar age...
it was a joke calling her auntie...
we ran into the air and seemingly ran on
water in the summer...
when the rain fell like a monsoon season finale...
barefoot on the concrete...
me and Justine...
too bad she married an ******* that
undermined my father's self-employment
subcontractor stature...
i hated him from the get-go... no ******* chin:
all sunken... top jaw exposing a gap in his lips...
i suppose he could, could... slurp a milkshake...
but if he were donning a shirt...
he'd might have to change it...
because he'd slobber any excess onto it...
a **** of a man... his parents sold saucepans
in a local market place...
they would have survived living in London
for about a week... small-town folk...
live-small: think-big!
there are many, many centres of the universe...
none have to begin with a fixation
on the solitary sun: just ask any solispist...
or don't ask any autistic crazed up frenzy of reflex...

GARKOTŁUK - a person who hits saucepans...
with no intention of becoming a Red Hot Chilli plumber...
plumber?! drummer... oh ****...

i live in a realm of familial estrangement...
me and Justine used to run barefoot in the summer rain...
come back home and get treated by our...
my great-grandmother... her grandmother:
she was my aunt mind you: but we were of similar age...
it was so much fun...
today's cycling session reminded me of those times...
hey presto: me replicating that memory: solo...
they tried living in London for a while...
instead: deciding on going back to ****** land...
opening up a laundry service in Warsaw...
i have cousins that will probably hear of me
as that "weird" cousin living in London...
  
      i have family: i don't have family...
i have a family of gold-diggers...
from my current employment... i've learned:
it's far better to love strangers than
to inherit a blood-line of two-faced
push-overs of hope...
i'm estranged from so much of my familial
ties it's no wonder i prefer the company
of strangers:
my heart has shrunk...
   to the size of a pebble...
  
                just like my grandfather predicted:
his words run along the lines:
makes your heart small... then watch how you'll
have people in your grasp!

facio vester parvus cor:
lapillus: in manus: amore mons...
a pebble in hand: a love of mountains...

familial estrangement is: weird...
what's weirder still: the capacity to loving strangers...
i don't know where this capacity was born
within me...
i simply can...mind you:
the closer i allow someone to entertain
my personal space: the more they hurt me...
best keep them at a distance...
i like cats: they don't require leashes...
just a call: come home... esp. Maine *****...
that's cats... but dogs? people?
leaches... i need leashes...

then again: i don't have a pet cat...
i have a cat companion...
lucky: ******* me not having a wife...
what would i do?
earn more money than is necessary?
i look up at the night sky and wonder:
when will my beard turn into a violin?!
i keep stroking this ****** thing like
it might be an otter:
just before a ******* strokes it back:
by then i'm: happy...

i've watched enough Bergman... that one
about a magician was my favorite:
it sort of reminded me of the French craze
for... le swashbuckle... Le Bossu...
le clapotisflampage!
two hunchbacks in one myth of a nation...

seulement Z français (not française - z'eh,
**** wit pseudo Normans)
françaí...
now i know why i didn't learn Fwench!
too many ******* surds...
letters imitating Thespians: actors of sound
missing...
    what... a ****** language...
perhaps great for thinking to echo thinking itself
via the thought of tables... chairs...
"Judases", i.e. peep-holes...
but in terms of correlating: what is spoken
with what is written?
French is the worst... English at least feels like
a terrible schizophrenic puzzle:
but one, one can work around...
Deutsche is just custard...
but French is the worst... too many surds...
just like the English stress that there are too many
consonants jumbled up in the ****** tongue...
likewise...
too many surds in the French zunge!

what?! no one who said that ever heard
of a game called ping-pong?! no? run Forrest! wun!
then again: no one knows whether i am:
or whether i'm not *******...
it'z: beautiful...
           i'll just finish early and have an early night...
thinking about Michaela for an hour...
her fat thighs and *******... all of her...
     just all of her... like i might think about a full English
breakfast after a day's worth of fasting...
even i am surprised: i like plum plump girls...
Ed Sheeran can sing his shivers song...
me? i'm doing the butcher's load of effort...
100 press-ups... readying myself for the *******...
me go Tarzan crazy feeling her legs wrap around me...
hell... bad luck...
if English girls are not willing to give it up:
living in a nation of joke-nuns...
no wonder i moved my libido elsewhere...
it's a long bye-bye... a very long bye-bye-...
my heart broke once... now?
each time it breaks: it's actually mending;
thank you Romania and your women;

figures... a nut-jobs contemplating feeding elephants
and a choice between cashews and peacans...
hmm! an impossible choice!
i'd prefer some Brazilian bite!

- hmm, the strangeness of women...
i might be a lion: but she's still playing the role
of a mantis: of hearts....
i can absorb the best genetic make-up...
Darwinism makes sense in and with nature,..
but not with man: out and without nature...
man is the epitome of nature:
without it...

             straw-blinded thrown blind-*******
into a commotion of a harvest of wheat....
before you close up your legs i'll re-open
them again:
why? because i can.

Mr Pig needed a plan in which to inject
He knew Mr Duck had become very hurt
So he has decided to treat the duck with respect
And buy him his favourite colour tee shirt.

That did not work so he’s bought a scouring pad
Well somewhere somehow one has to draw a line
And this thought he had made him feel really glad
Because it meant Mr Duck could make his saucepans shine.

Mr Duck was sinking into further depression
His whole being felt sort of broken.
He sat with his little face without expression
And what is more he had not spoken.

Ducks these days have to be sort of thick skinned
Especially when you run out of luck.
Life is not like a a mad, mad whirlwind
These are the thoughts from a broken duck.

Tapping his fingers
upon wooden desk , Albert
wished he'd done much more

all the times he spent
away from his family
touring the country

had left him in a
state of winter emptiness
of frozen raindrops

his banjo his friend
his only friend , his wife , his
two children now gone

taken way to soon
from a tragic accident
flowers never grew

there spirits now fly
echoing through his cracked walls
of a broken heart

his sorrowful heart
numb and black with depression
took over his soul

he gave a sigh of
regret as he looked outside
his window of pain

shelves of unread books
decorated the sky , soft
snowflakes stood still

an empty armchair
a brown stained cup of coffee
floated in-between

a jack in the box
popped up every hour , a
small hand fades away

a pretty apron
covered in painted saucepans
danced with a big spoon

he bowed his head , his
eyes filled with tears like bright stars
twinking at night

his feet rooted deep
under the ground clinging to
a life he once knew

until spring leaves blossomed
spreading a rush of warm love
into his heart

he opened his eyes
to a sky of birds flapping
there wings happily

and for the first time
in a long time , he watched
the golden sunrise

And he knew there and
then he must forgive himself
for the life he'd lived

It's the hour that locks us in and devours the minutes that makes up the day,the hour that boils in the saucepans of man and makes the dish that makes men wish there was more,the hour that laughs at us,looks and dismisses us,picks us and dishes us up.
Every minute I see every hour will be one more second to go and we know where they go,
to the locker room of gloom where the hour of doom is at hand,let us smile for the hour is yet but a mile from the door,one minute more,one minute past,one minute to last me a lifetime.

He needed a plan in which to inject
He knew his friend had become very hurt
So he has decided to treat him with respect
And buy him his favourite colour tee shirt.

That did not work so he’s bought a scouring pad
Well somewhere somehow one has to draw a line
And this thought he had made him feel really glad
Because it meant his friend could make his saucepans shine.

This friend was sinking into further depression
His whole being felt sort of broken.
He sat with his little face without expression
And what is more he had not spoken.

Friends these days have to be sort of thick skinned
Especially when you run out of hope.
Life is not like a a mad, mad whirlwind
But dwindling like soap on a rope.

He needed a plan in which to inject
He knew his friend had become very hurt
So he has decided to treat him with respect
And buy him his favourite colour tee shirt.

That did not work so he’s bought a scouring pad
Well somewhere somehow one has to draw a line
And this thought he had made him feel really glad
Because it meant his friend could make his saucepans shine.

This friend was sinking into further depression
His whole being felt sort of broken.
He sat with his little face without expression
And what is more he had not spoken.

Friends these days have to be sort of thick skinned
Especially when you run out of hope.
Life is not like a a mad, mad whirlwind
But dwindlig like soap on a rope.

nostalgia has become my best friend
the smallest things will make me relive this memory that i never really had. like when i hear the vibrations of no one ever loved, i have this aching in my bones and my heart feels like spears are flying in at every direction and i cry out for someone i never really lost or the way pictures of places make me yearn to go back to countries i've never seen. i've been homesick for the place we never had and longed for someone i could never have. home the scent that lingers to the bedroom i can smell the  batter of the aunt jamima. syrup is expanding on the kids plates, sticking like the glue they will soon discover their first day of preschool. and as i stand here in front of you now i can't fathom if this is another one of my vivid dreams. i've been in a mental daze for years now my mind is scattered like a meadow of sunflowers who can't seem to shine through my orbit nerves. the painting of the paris that dangles like saucepans behind my bed is yet another country i've tried to crawl into, but it's painful my knees are developing carpet burn and my elbows are full of red mountain ridges. and i can't seem to reach the summit of this mountain. honey do you remember the glue sticks we have hidden until the kids first day of school? give the glue to them. let them learn how to unscrew the cap, pop it off like the corks of the first champaign bottle they will open on december 31st. give them ropes that will leave a ribbon of red on their palms by the time they reach the clift that their mother dangles from. tell the kids to use their little muscles they've been strengthening with their daily glass of milk, to push mommy to the top and glue my feet there and make me promise i  will never jump. home the first place the kids got to use glue, the new place where whey will build a foundation of trust with their father on a mountain where glue wasn't enough to hold their mother down. mom. yes sorry, i was just washing the dishes, go color a picture for your father. soap drips from my prunny palms leaving ***** dish water memories. when i see the steel sink, i hear the garbage disposal weathering the rocks down of a mountain i've been struggling climb. breaking down every memory i've ever had. slicing them like apples except there's no juice. but there is aunt jamima batter, enough batter to linger scents to my room every morning. enough syrup to stick to the cheap paper plates, from the corner store. corners i will turn until i reach the summit of this  mountain.

There is a man in front of me

He sits slouched in the corner

His hair is shot and grey-brown

He spends several seconds unpuzzling a

Romantic quote

He doesn't like it

He spends a few reading another post

It says:

Funny

How you can choose between labour

And conservative

But can't decide whether your gay

Or straight

Or like *******

Saucepans

( I think it means pansexual )

He likes this post.

Funny.

The walls of the train

He is alot older than I thought he would be

Less brown

More grey.

well, it was going to be a beautiful day, and it is a beautiful day, scorched grass patches, humidity to match that of Thailand... welcome to the Hot Age... well there was the Ice Age, no? there was Moses poetically summarising pre-history with: Noah was very real... more real than Britney Spears... history more real than insomniac journalism, fake history omni-present god replacing medium of writing ******* after ******* after more: swinging *******... but there's a plus side to this heat: angry-thinking... Freud can *******... what dream-interpretation? i have no dreams: and if i have dreams they're so already abstract that i don't need some coke-head to figure them out for me... i sometimes dream in sounds... maybe i should have been the next ******* Mozart! no! i don't have repressed-memories... i don't have repressive-memories: i have OPPRESSIVE-memories... i remember nuggets of gold from the time i was 4 years old... i guess i better leave some notes as i write and come back to them:

- sceptics vs. cynics Ezra Pound Taoist me vs. sceptics  (passion),
source of inspiration for this type of writing? Gombrowicz's Kronos...

i take out an imaginary leash and put it around my tongue:
hey presto! i'm walking a dog...
usually i walk a bottle of cider in the labyrinth
of outer-London suburbia...
i'm glad to be be 30 minutes away from Liverpool St.
by bus and train and 30 minutes' worth of walking
uphill to the biggest collection of...
well... "collection": an avenue of Wellingtonias...
Giant Redwoods (prehistoric pillars) -
        'which is one of only two plantations in the country'...
looks like i'm becoming a local boy...
i think i'm coupled with a gravity that's linear...
i'm less a falling body attached to some molten
iron core of the earth...
when again: what's up? what's down?
what's east and what's north outside the realm
of the winds, in the great divide between nature
and physics in the pupil of yawn-and-death-eating space?
no need to romance the man... someone's toilet paper
is already in pretend-mode of flapping...
so many myths of the moon died with:
one small step... another leap for... man and kangaroo...
i adore the laziness of sloths, turtles,
pandas... and koalas...
but then again: i don't think a lion is the king
of the natural world... i think the bear is...
that bulge of an omnivore... i like Russian thinking
when it comes to choosing emblems...
i like bears... i have this memory of being in the Danzig
zoo... walking into a bear enclosure...
mommy bear was watching... my mother was watching...
i walked up to a bear...
a baby bear, i was a baby too...
he started to nibble on my cardigan...
he must have bitten off about two buttons...
i ran back crying to my mum: he ate two of my buttons!
now i know: why i don't dream...
my memory faculty stretches far beyond what
most people have...
i think that's a welcome curiosity to have...
by the dictates of psychology:
you either remember... or? you dream...
i don't dream... i remember...
i can take you back to the first flashes
of brilliance aged 4... i can take you back to:
aged 5 or 6... when me and the two Kowalski brothers
first tasted coffee: granulated: instant...
obviously: we just became bored of sugary drinks...
that was a ******* gateway drug... back then...
why don't i dream? or why do i dream in
ciphers?
               ah... the memory bank...
i didn't allow pedagogy completely ruin me...
no wonder i treat the current job as a... hobby...
it truly is... crowd safety management is a hobby...
i like organising people:
one woman under my supervision already said:
you're the sort of person one would walk into
a fire for...
        i'm *******: gagging on these compliments...
i don't even think i'm deserving them:
if i am? so be it... if i'm not:
i can sniff a liar pretty quickly...
liars / lies don't walk on stilts...
       they re ******* midgets...
                         i sometimes like seeing myself in full element:
it will be: the most trivial thing that will
set me off...
   my nickname(s) in high-school?
Goldilocks (because i had long hair done into
a French braid from time to time)
Hulk: when i showed my truer face and...
   "that guy with the weird fruit"...
i did eat a lot of passion fruits, pomegranates,
Sharon(s)... etc. etc.
hmm... i'm pretty sure i wasn't supposed to work
the 20th at Fulham...
guess i'm just forever freely available these days...
people can just put me up for any shift without
me complaining:
no wife, no kids... ms. amber and Sophia...
fair enough... mind you: i like the commute...
and seeing the Thames is rather refreshing...
the weirdest river known to man...
mind you: it is an island river...
what ******* river as concept of river of flow
has TIDE written all over it?!
rivers flow... rivers shouldn't behave like seas!
how does that work?
the membrane "event horizon" of the Thames...
and... the north sea?!
huh?!

i sometimes hate London...
back in Edinburgh i used to wake up with a geographical
clarity...
the Firth of Forth helped a lot...
i knew where east was... i knew where north was...
and west and the south...
in London? even if i cycle toward that old Serpent
and Father Thames: i still don't ******* know:
i look across the river: oh right... that's north...
no! that's south you dim-whit!
ugh... i once saw London from an aerial perspective:
flying from Barcelona to Edinburgh...
so we were passing this massive lit-BLOB...
what the **** is this? i thought...
then i noticed Canary Wharf blinking... oh... right...
London!

oh mate... iT IS M'AH... MASSIVE!
it must have taken us abut five minutes to fly over that
giant sponge of civilisation... well:
paying due compliments... but it was HUGE!
it's worth seeing once: during the night...
but only once...
the rest of the time?

i must have mentioned it prior:
bicycle tyre problems...
Chadwell Heath the point of call...
the Halford's corporation couldn't **** me
a pigeon out of a penguin's *******
because: their mechanic was away until the end of
August: Bicycle King instead: done by Friday...
in the meantime i went for a pint of Guinness...

weird... you smile at a guy talking about women
on some other table... you're not weird...
you're just making an approach...
casual conversation *******...
hey presto... you acknowledge each other's presence...
and the chat takes off...
work, music, the weather... you name it...
whatever comes to mind...
it was so refreshing... it almost felt like being
soldiers on the western front: in the trenches...
breaking ***** and marking banter
on our crippled souls...
we probably had loving mothers...
but our experiences with women were:
let's just say cats and dogs loved us more...
we could actually joke with these creatures...

i said i brought a leash for my tongue...
i didn't say i brought the muzzle...
my tongue my dog
mea lingua mea canis!
              paro dictata:
i set the rules!
                                 n'est ce pas?!

there's nothing necessary to inquire for feeble men:
beside... what is necessary for what it
feeble per se...

now: for a sample of Gombrowicz's Kronos
note-taking, extravaganza!

chadwell heath pub promenade
bbq amazing...
missing: doing a refill, smoking a cigarette.
ginger brat: shivers:
      Ovid, book III, opening...
three unusual muses...
reading: music... ****** lyricism...

- and if i dream? strange... i only seem to dream of:
dentes: teeth!
there was this myth concerning my maternal
great-grandfather... how he had pristine
teeth... he used to eat sugar cubes like
a horse might eat apples...
he was the one who dumped a whole load of coffee
beans into the river: Kamienna...
the Stone River...
NN...an oddity in the ****** tongue...
you utter the double N with  stutter...
n'ah n'ah...
                   there ought to be a letter for this
example... oddity...
it can't just be a double N...

                       that's not for me to discover
or apply... but he basically dumped sacks of coffee
beans into the river... long before anyone
in the Slavic lands... on the periphery of civilisation
knew what coffee was used for...
Francis was his name...
he's my earliest memory...
maybe that's why i have dream inhibitions...
my long surviving memory is of him:
as shadow...
playing the piano...
putting me next to a toy piano
and the pair of us playing...

i have grown into a horrid man...
i'm currently listening to:
the Davy Jones' theme from pirates of
the Caribbean... and...
it's not that i'm afraid of death
or falling asleep: i just think the two
are a proper waste of time...
if i can remember living from the age of four:
why would i require a need to dream?
my memory has bypassed all that erosion
from pedagogic investments into creating
a workforce...
i don't need escapism via dreams...
i have my memory for that!

one crescendo two crescendo three!
four crescendo five crescendo six!

America spews forward *******...
i'm not ally to this current agenda... you know what
i think? i think the Russians are doing
a ****** marvelous "thing" in Ukraine...
much better than Americans in either Iraq
or Afghanistan.... much better:
less a proxy war: more a practical war:
a chess-war... a war of: consequences!

ha ha... the meme that somehow the Africans are
Orcs... the warring types...
the Mongols weren't?
oh sure sure... the English etymological roots
of Slav = Slav(e)... sure... sure...
this is my pet peeve!
my iris and sclera disappear whenever i see someone
make that statement...
i go: ha ha! BONKERS!
what African people ever conquered whatever
part of the world except their own people
which they sold into slavery?!
see! BONKERS!
i go... absolutely ******* gloriously MAD!

i've ben given absolutely:
diagnosed: mad... let me abuse the terminology / diagnosis
a little! because?! ha ha! i'm exempt from
standard prosecution! i can always succumb
to the insanity plea!
i have back-up memorandum queues...
these normal people are just: these normal people...
boorish and above all boring as ****-goes-on-holiday...

i know why i don't dream...
photographs are useless...
me taking a a photograph when i was at most lowest,
fattest? when i took the photograph:
i looked rather thin...
but? when someone else took a photograph
of me sitting in front of a Christmas dinner:
a ******* porky pie...
i don't know how cameras work:
obscurity of the eye of the beholder...
fused with the technicality of the added
technological specimen... hmm...
curiously more curious...

           i know why i don't dream: i have a very poignant
memory in my brain:
the memory of my great-grandfather as a shadow...
here: i place my focus for entering Tartarus...
beyond the already familiar depths of Hades...
i need more! i need to go deeper...
i don't dream because i have a memory of my
great-grandfather as a shadow!
darkness abounds!

                abundo tenebris!
umbra *** umbra venio hic...
(shadow with shadow come here):
i see no need for Sabbaths or for witches...
i need shadows and shadows of shadows...
and thoughts as splinters and trees as fire and ash...
i need! HORROR!
   i need the current people to live their lives
as passively as must be met:
while i quietly pass... pass as the angel of death passed
as the final plague that befell Egypt!
listen! listen! ever so... quietly!
i need them lullabied... oblivious to the SUFLER:
speaking cues to the actors on stage!
LET, ME, PASS!

                some ******* idiot will get in my way?
i will... sacrifice a lamb: and salvage a wasp!

- it was at work at the Wembley Stadium that i first
spotted a doe (female deer) embodied by a woman,
it's so rare to find that LOOK: deer in headlights...
frightened stiff about to be taken for grass by a lawnmower...
mature woman... i'm guessing in her 40s...
all the sort of details a boy would expect from
a ****... seriously... curves, *******, ***...
although: scared eyes, perhaps even scarred eyes...
i kept glancing under my sunglasses,
she kept glancing: irritated somewhat: irritated-fearful,
as if she met destiny and it wasn't what she
was expecting...
            what a beautifully bountiful specimen of
fetishes i've been fed over the years in the medium
of *******...
sure, it's summer now, and all the young and fertile
women are walking around the streets like
its a nudist beach in the French Riviera...
oh man: such under-developed bodies...
bodies that are yet to experience the crunch of ***...

i try to think about how pedophiles think...
then i get the picture...
scrambled eggs... i like they almost burnt...
i hate well-done overcooked beef in the form of a stake...
i need it rare or medium, **** it... even blue will do...
eggs? i can't have them underdone...
i know people who like runny scrambled eggs...
you can eat undercooked beef and pork:
but undercooked chicken? it's slimy...
it's like eating slugs... plus the salmonella...
plus... it feels like raw sea-food...
that's how i look at women who have not arrived
at any ****** potential...
it's ******* ****-ugly... builder-Bob's hairy *** crack
when his blue jeans droop...

young women are like undercooked chicken...
mature women are like rare beef...
BLOOD... JUICE... NO ORANGES...
     it's filth it's suckling it's the monstrosity of coming
to her **** after she just spent a year or so
feeding some rugrat with her *******...
it's macabre, it's... nature...
it's ******* a woman like that thinking:
ooh oops... when will she turn into a Mantis?!
it's like having a bicycle accident... falling head first
over the handlebars and leaving permanent
"tattoos" on your forehead... getting up and exclaiming...
i just saw Francis Bacon paint a **** while ****!
ffff-ucking spectacular! i don't need to ingest
any lysergic acid... i'm good with the head-traumas...
disorientating at first: but orientating after...

more life, more blood, more grime more filth!
more more! MORE!
mind you, is that 'e" at the end of more really necessary?
you don't really say: aMorÉ... do you?
it's not more vs. moor... ooh... i just thirst for fiddly
bits in language... and English?
it's the devil's playground... if Poland is god's
equivalent...
you know... it took **** Germany AND Soviet
Russia to subdue Poland... longer...
than it took **** Germany to subdue France...

oh to hell with the current exported trend of culture
from H'america: white apologetics...
i don't share your history: i've been woken up
from a trinity-partition... i'm not apologising
for ****!
   i think i'd look great in an SS-mensch uniform...
i like black from time to time...
i have thoughts of Karl Lagerfeld's style...
just pretend you're donning fur...
the cat isn't clothed... you're right: #metoo!
i'll done and adore the colours of the hearth...
i'll burn bright in auburn...
in browns and in greens...
    i'll become a... ******* talking tree!

enough!
         too many idiots are running this ****-show...
grammar lessons from people with an IQ of 60...
i'm checking out!
  bye bye...
  inflated overbearing baron-demons of want...
how easily they allowed me to dehumanise them...
i look at black flies and think: ooh!
just the right sort of tickle!
   people have created people like me...

how i can simply have casual *** with prostitutes
without using a ****** and not worry
about any STGs...
sexually transmitted diseases...
i probably drank enough milk in my youth...
broken bones? nope...
but outgrowths of bone? yep...
that's true... i have one on my shin...
hardly a ballerina in me bewildered by a tutu...
i don't break bones:
i leave outgrowths...

hmm... time for a new meditation...
the serpents can be left alone...
two serpents in a pickling jar? a DNA helix...
or... dragons?! fire...
the great meteor when the moon failed
to protect the earth... fire breathing
giant lizards... dinosaurs...
that, meditation: is over...
time to turn to insects... hmm... flies...
wasps...
i like that... the way wasps are born:
pure Darwinism:
insect and parasite combined...
                the larva is shoved into an unsuspecting
body of a worm...
the larva is born and starts...
eating the worm from the inside: out...
imitation cuckoo bird...
sort of the same principle...

                 has Darwinism been truly applied?
has it?! has it?! i call an obstacle i find in man
either: THING... or the OTHER...
ha ha... pronouns... ha ha... ah ha ha... pronouns...
yeah: these people have one:
IT...
                 i'm just a theological mercenary...
either the descent of god or the ascendance of the devil:
the wind blows in all four geographical vectors...
as a ****** they could have sold me Protestantism,
Catholicism, Communism... ******... blah blah...
this... woke little **** of: thank you: but i rather sleep,
is... supposed to what?! make me quake in my boots!
hold hold... let me just twinkle my toes...
do i have... socks on my feet? wait wait...
mmm... furry-toes... yeah: i have socks on...

being the massive fan of both the Red Hot Chilli Pappers
and William Burroughs:
hell only knows where these idle hands will
travel...
i love my bedroom in the night with no lights
on... insatiable: the drummer-instinct in me...
i can't help grooving to EASILY
and AROUND THE WORLD...
hands joined to the torso...
hands attached to hands... no saucepans...
**** it... thighs knees and the head will simply do...
i need to chase after my heartbeat...
out-chase it...

but in the darkness by the silver milk of the moon's
rays... my naked body impressed against the backdrop
of constellations...
Azog the Pale Orc and his Warg Matriarch...
well... mine is ginger and he's no matriarch...
he's a castrated ginger Maine ****...
yes... let's get carried away...
                because the comparison of Africans as Orcs
is a disrespected for me...
the English knowledge of etymology
of Slav = Slav(e) is also slightly off...

just like Billy Joel sang while sifting through sand
to find bones and rocks:
just like the post-Soviets in Ukraine
and H'americans in Iraq and Afghanistan...
what African people conquered any "polite" plot
of land outside of Africa? who?! the "Orcs"?
who are the slaves?
who's anyone, mind you?

Shaolin monk style questing:
i abhor the sceptics... i have this inherent hatred for
the sceptics like Ezra Pound abhorred the Taoists...
i can't: stand their... adamant... pride...
their neglect of being humbled...
how do you learn the concept of humbling?
by being humbled...
and how do you counter the concept of humbling?
upon being humbled:
you transcend and do not: humble...
whenever i was made a makeshift supervisor...
i didn't humble people...
i was caretaker...
because just don't get the whole idea...
they have partial clues regarding the idea of
the function...
today i caught a green-bell fly with my index and
thumb... i took a photograph of my "adventure":
as you do...
because it wasn't me stretching easily melting cheese...
so i guess that's a plus...

i hate scepticism...
you ******* don't know the basic principles of
1 + 1 = 2... CAUSALITY...
seriously? the fire that erupted in that tiny village
of Wennigton was like...
CAUSE + EFFECT = CAUSALIY...
so... i blow up a balloon up with my breath?
carbon dioxide... the balloon will sink...
i inflate it with helium, what? the balloon rises...

what's the impact i have by cycling to where
i need to go? no impact...
well... some extra traffic...
i might overheat my rubber, no?
but in terms of fuel? yes... carbohydrates
in my body... i need to peddle...
what am i burning? my own momentum...
i'm not burning any dinosaur fuel or gas...
i'm mobile... more mobile that people
who overuse their mobile phones...
there was a point: once upon a time:
for telephones to be left stationary...

  i abhor the sceptics: they're like the worst bad joke bad
jokers...
the canine cynics i can understand:
i can understand their cynicism:
fear the dog that fears its owner...
we're currently the dogs in fear of their own
fate: our owner...

i have oppressive memories...
that's why i don't dream... what interpretation
could Freud give:
and all that pedagogic erosioin fron learning
"skills": what skills? that would envision me
as having traction in the workforce?
zilch! nada! nothing! i just think of those poor
people who have recurrent dreams...
poor *******: how can you become so *******
as to have recurrent dreams?
70cl of whiskey won't help?
waking up at 8am the next day...
anxious out of both brain and freeze won't help?
not sure whether vomiting or taking a ****
will ease your burden, that confusion
won't help?!
**** me...
                   **** it... jump off a cliff...
paying close attention to the sunset...
maybe that might help...
                  i can't help you luvvy dubby... teddy...
please don't try to hug me...
i've seen how that works in the workforce...
one bubbly gal... all purple hai with
a hiding twitch in her hair...
   hugs me...
i just misheard a word she uttered...
she said darling: i thought she said daddy...
every since it has become a *******
schtick!
                 ugh... it's like... my ******* *******
tuching glue...
would i like erecticle dysfunction? yes please...
so i'm greeting this big girl with a hug...
the one i'm more interested in...
she's ginger: i have a ginger-fetish...
i think of her as: MOUSE...
anyway...

      let's get the party people pout and get them
the **** out of the way...
i will not describe to them that i have...
an inkling into right-wing politics...
i'm a fascistic nut...
   blah blah...
                    i get the purple-haired frogs out
of the way... by? hugging them...
i get onto the mouse... ooh... the dynamic changes...
i can't hug her...
the purple haired lesbian-fatso wants hugs:
i give her hugs...
but the mouse is special...
she's ginger...
             i love gingers...

i address her with a hand... extended...
she's not a man... therefore? she doesn't perform a handshake...
she.... hmm...
i'm a daddy... about to give my daughter
an ice-cream cone...
  she grips my fingers in the wrong way
that hands out to meet upon greeting...
she grips my fingers... on the wrong side...
i feel: oddly... left-handed...

i thank god and the democracy of satans
for the simple fact that:
none of these people will ever care to wonder
where i spend some of my nights...
ha ha...
oh please... ***** please...
i spend them with prostitutes...
you think i'm that quick to quiver?!
seriously?
i love a game of cards more than i enjoy a game
of chess: after all: it's one game after another...

games... games...
i used to be a big gamer in my early teenage-hood...
i couldn't be separated from my PS1 console
during the weekend...
i begged for a PS2... didn't get one...
i guess gaming caught up to me...

the gaming experience coupled with the internet...
ah... mind-mining...
teaming up... war robot games...
my thrill has finally come...
war robots... mech arena...
better still... the agenda of credit...
me? it's free, isn't it? well then...
but you manage to spot the people who invest
money in something:
they're usually skill-less: not exactly team-players...
esp. when it come to a game that
focuses on two objectives...
winning or losing is just a byproduct...
(a) gaining authority over control points
(b) destroying all the opposite side's mechs...
time frame? 10 minutes in war robots...
5 minutes in mech arena...
plenty of time to contemplate taking a ****...
mind you: either i dilate my ****
and ease out a **** by jerking off to a pair of ****
or i play an interactive game...
on the throne of thrones...
i could be wearing a crown of: dust...
and it would still matter... whether the plumbing works:
or doesn't...

i seriously had to wait for gaming to catch up with
my desired DIET of gaming...
i had to wait for the internet to evolve...
i required an arena... a lottery of... value...
competent players versus incompetent players...
players willing to hone in on their skills for free...
and players... lazy enough to invest money
that is otherwise unnecessarily invested in a game...

i'm coming back to gaming...
i can du soku... ****... su doku  by myself...
what need for crossword puzzles when you're already
a crossword puzzle of bilingualism?
sure... i have polyglot interests...
the concept of RENDAKU springs to mind...
as expressed in ORIGAMI:
                        g = k.... TOE-MAY-TOES...
T'OH-M'AH-TOES...
  
        hey! the people of the never-setting sun!
you're not much different, n'est ce pas?!
but there's a more obvious RENDAKU...
theta phi V...
alTHough... THought... and...
             PH = TH = F...
    but "F" = V... via TH...
                   the Fe? or the V'eh in THE point?!
i'll bring this tower of Babel to crumble before
my toes and then, and then:
i'll kneel among the rubble!
too much of Hell's ambitions have been sung by men
for Hell to simply: wallow in Heaven's tyranny
of absence!
                    we're here...
whoever we are: it doesn't matter...
                       one variant attired to another...
we're mechanisations to counter the absence of human
spirit...
we're the *****-slapping crew...
i pray to god that i'm not alone in my ambitions...
not that i pray...

this posting will have to wait...
i have a shift at Wembley tomorrow...
Coldplay... it's not like i hate them: i just don't love them...
it will be a dross...
but this posting will have to wait... i might have
to stop over at the brothel to ease my brain from
having ownership of a head...
i'll think about it...
depends on... a number of factors...

for the time being... mosquitos... caught... donning
donning boxing gloves... by the *******...
or... flies... catching them by the legs...
with naked fingers...
ooh... i love those pristine *******...
the green-bells... fertile *******...
they **** more maggots than they eat...
black flies are priests...
i like the tickling sensation insects leave
on a naked body... esp. when they don't deposit any
embryos... of their own...
**** me: wasps and my eye...
i would: most probably: punch myself to death if that
ever happened...
ergo? there's a god...
ergo? simple people make life pristine all the more
difficult...
no one has problems with competent people...
no one... idiots make this world worse
than the best it already is...
the ******* god of norms...
"calculations"... exhibits A and exhibits B...
i'm getting tired of this Atlas pause...
i'm waiting for Darwinism-proper kicks in...
when the dimension of agony-scrutiny and: RE-ALITY
cometh...

no one is going to dictate my useage of
the English language beside an authentic English-man!
no one!
no one... oh... but i'm siding with the Russians...
no one sided with the Iraqis when Iraq
was invaded... no one sided with the Afghans
when Afghanistan was invaded...
**** the Ukrainians: i'm not siding with them...
Cossacks undermined the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth... sold it to the Ottoman barbers...
**** them...
i'm on the side of the Russians...
which makes listening to western journalistic
narratives a miracle of escapism...
i began, to, stop, reading, pointless, books:
already, pointless, to, begin, reading! ******* bravo!
extend the concept of starvation!

no no... now we're talking more... we need more...
there's only one guilt trip associated with hell...
gluttony: the gluttony of death...
there are never enough dead people!
hmm! ******* weird!
why aren't there enough dead people?!

can't you *******, just, die?!
    sure: i'm equally man...
by no summary i am no exception...
perhaps... i'm some variation of an exception
akin to: i bite an apple: i... "taste" water...
wait a minute: you can't "taste" water...
since... water is tasteless...
how pow! either the apple is imaginary
or my taste of the apple is imaginary:
or my ability to taste is imaginary...
or... well... there was no apple to begin with...

ha ha... by now all of philosophy is not a question
but an answer: i just don't care...
and? i just don't care...
it's a must of: there's too much...
and there's too little...
      it's clearly beyond any prior concern
of GOOD and EVIL...
there's just too much... and there's too little...
there are new-rule absolutes...

only a dutious scarab of a servant might acknowledge
this conundrum...
we have moved beyond the gravity of language
concerning a good and an evil...
there? is either too little...
or there's too much! for the time being: problem solved:
i.e. problem staged: therefore: not solved!
hell yawns! more of these i.q. deficient mongrels!

yes, i abhor the sceptics with a similar passion
that Socrates ascribed the sophists,
with equal passion Ezra Pound ascribed his passionate
hatred for the the Taoits...
i ascribe equal measure to the sceptics...
i can bark dog with the cynics...
i like cynicism... i abhor scepticism:
they're so ridiculous ridiculous...
to them? the casausality bound to the physics is
non-existent...

mind you... i don't know what i'm doing with this
poo'em...
i have already broken several instances
of keeping up to the up-keep of
エンソー...

                  **** me... even the Japanese use diacritical
markers, the English are forever adamant
in not using any... even though there's an example
of レンダク (rendaku) in almost every word that arrives
at the "suspicion) of THETA contra PHI...
TH = D in there's a point...
TH = F in there's thinking invoked...
THE= V: THE point...

it has taken me too many takes to complete this piece
with too many interludes of
either staring at my shadow or blinking at the sun...
i will need to abandon this poem at some point...
not that it's unfinished:
it's only that i require a readership of squaters
to venture in its dynamic...
new "things" happened... i need to write about them...
too much happened today for me to want
to perfect this:
i already wasted about half an hour looking
for my headphones...
father... i know i placed them in some easily
re-find location... what did he do?
he stashed my headphones in a drawer with
his shoes and shoelaces...
   apparently too inconvenient...
a lunatic walking around the house with a searchlight
trying to find them...
                no, this poem is becoming silly...

Like a swamp ****
it grows in the boiling water of saucepans.
That seems to be the only way people cook it.
It's slimy and soggy
and tastes of death.
The corpse of a once thriving plant,
now in the coffin of the saucepan.
Disgusting.
Revolting.
Why would anyone see that ditch ****
and think,
"Looks edible!"
Obviously they were very wrong.