but have you noticed, have you noticed how  all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.

and while adam inherited the sunrise of eden, the devil inherited eden's sunset;
so that writing about something is less satisfactory
than what was never really envisioned, but otherwise handed
with the befriended samael away from library or cocktail party,
**** writing i suspect, but the feeling is too immense for words
to capture the images that were sequenced in that frailty, because they were fleeting moments; thus the night's former admiration for the eyes to behold, the lowered horizon of the moon in such bulging yellow as might encompass the frozen one of winter's heights.

how can language be made believable in the sense of
creating images out of words?
here is an example,
and man did his "buddhist" bit under a tree in the
night, on the field he fancied himself a stranger
but a place he forgot to frequent.
upon return to civilisation from equating
******* of sexuality as that of the ******* cut
before being able to be experienced
laughing about it,
he walked down the hill,
a herd of deer made it onto the darkened streets and pavement,
the stag died, the harem was in disarray,
but the youngest one did not follow the herd
and turned into the street the man was walking on,
in lightning momentary genetics of similitude via atoms
the man looked at the young deer mare
and told her: run! with eyesight.
then came the sight of the harem herd at the crossroads,
and thus this same man started galloping, wild at heart,
herding the deer mares back into the forest.
be warned, i had witnesses who would vouchsafe that
they saw and that i too had eyes.
this is the equivalent of heideggerian expression of this one
remaining truth: man, he who herds animals,
he who domesticates animals also.
i never write from fantasy, i experience my sickness
as a woman weeping in my mentioned care for mentality;
it's simply... the misery of not being with me, being near;
thus i reside writing from experience,
nothing more, nothing that could make me give into
the modern twist of fashion and fame:
only fictional characters elevate any mention of realistic fame,
all the real people are journalistic target practice;
fifteen minutes are up! time to create fictionalised celebrities,
and that time is upon us.
thus the problem with fiction, given this poem.
i imagine the women after muhammad's death, just
to make it easier for you to imagine a man with this harem (otherwise herd)
of deer mares; i frequented populated places too often
in winter, now spring's passing deflowering comes sepia-like,
thus i can unbutton my need to cherish human interaction,
and return home, forest bound.
thus we say, unto clarice lispector, wild at heart,
thus we say, written out of parring against images that haunt
the schizoids' arable need to see in colour and phantom; i cannot;
take it or leave it.
if this is my best itemisation of events
then i didn't run the deer off the street to allow the traffic to
pass, but because i wrote it like picasso drawing 90º metered
into hammer blows in architecture class
doesn't mean it didn't happen, it only means i wrote
it like the remnants of a child in an ageing man - which suits
the quote by him, be an artist by remaining true to childhood,
ensure there's no precision no schooling
in the work you try to vogue, because it won't vogue
after all, given you're still encrusted in imaginary befriending
and dreaming, just remain true to childhood
and your art will not become overladen with itemisation
of *** being the last remaining frontier away from
the antarctic, the alps and buddhism;
indeed all children are born artists, but only a few
make it art in adulthood, most make it to jealousy
and marketing or sleepwalking into selling furniture
with hope to buy it back into self-employment,
that's why art is borne from those who cherish childhood
and think less and remember more.

so ardent me within her deer-like to her prance jesting happy
jump-over invisible fence-like structures content
with the *** so full of life, and her, the *** of so much potential for death
ably being guarded to return, out of man's sight;
i didn't even bother to count them to a number;
i hate it, beauty cannot given the righteous expression,
letters are nothing but skeletal compared to the muscle of images.

it's the smallest voices that scream the loudest
I've never been a fan of the trending hero
or the underground superstar.
slam poets make me sick.
your attitude is a well concocted ploy
to touch indie hearts and
I hate it.
I love the ignored
the militants
the trashman painter,
the gas station attendent that
makes ****** artcore ******
in her boyfriend's garage
the sixteen y.o. with a tape recorders
and a circuitbent casio
howling blood into an old
speakercummicrophone
slash and burn
leave your best work sitting
on a park bench for me
ignore the plight and shove
your fingers down your throat.
I love the broken. the hurt.
the misanthropes the schizoids
**** victims
homeless
suicidal
single mothers
drug addicts
if that fire is in your shattered
legs reflecting the age of
a
billion dead scaffolds
soul of revolution raging
knife in paw
I will fall in love with you
and sigh at the detrious
in your wake.
let me see you naked and crying
my own wounds fester quiet
when everyone else is asleep.
have a drink,
you earned it.

speak easies and sunsets
the rip roaring tide
of each season
plucked from
a particular
map of heart
a wilted plant
brought to
fruition
through
journies posted
reconciled and branded
out of their
terrain of gloom
with terrain too soon
the hardy way
of blues
‘infidel rider
of the box car
whiskey sunrise
alarm clock for BBC
snowy icy white lot
sky feasting
on schizoids
orchestrating
the busses
the pistols
silenced
and silent
the train

for a drunk: i can manage
                                  the cannabis induced
                                       chill...

   what, with england and
                      the laughing gas epidemic...

oh yeah, you can spot about
9 bullets of
the concentrated stuff
  in one evening's walking
                                                    session...

who would have thought
that english humour,
black as the advances of
melancholia
                                    required a: booster...

but then i've never heard
of: (and now it's a concept)
dyslexia in slavic languages...
no wonder

given my: not-so-bright observation
of -
            perhaps its a dialect
of east germany...

one example...
    the tinniest of "errors"...

                rammstein's ich will...
    past the veil and Volford...
      like counting knuckles
whenever not teasing
a punchbag,
      or a stomach on the *******...

there's an apparently missing S...
       what i hear what i hear:
what i see, but don't hear is ich...

and back into language games:
in slavic that's
literally translated as:
                  theirs -
mind you:
i also find the use of the apostrophe
sometimes confusing in english,
it's this one aspect of english
i'm still groveling over...

   have to forgive them for not
concerning themselves with this, minor,
detail...

       theirs,

                        the plural possessiveness
of the collective other...

               hardly a case to unload
with: there's -

     which in hounddog
                gobble gobble down
a goebbels as in:            
                                      there   is,

ya, i know, prostitutes for an hour,
the part of me that's supposed
to feel jealous of owning a car
when i own a pair of legs,

                    and you get to mind
road tax, while i concerns myself about
spaghetti al dente and shoelaces?
i'll take the shoelaces,
  thank you, very much.

   but this is a recurrent theme in:
well: at least sort this "orthography" out,
the english use of the apostrophe
when concerned with
            the plural, the possesive,
and the: "slang" add-on of is...

notably the problem: St. Paul's
             and what if not many Pauls?
you can't exactly note that,
depending on your aesthetic genesis...

                   Pauls's - paul-sysyz...
god forbid i be the one steering
           the hindenburg over London...
    
but clearly there's a dispossesive
pluralism involved in the possessive
article of apostrophe S,
                                                      's...

ich can imply: not the german first person
pronouns, subsequent with
                                        ()Pad...
                cheap, monetißing on grammar...

but in the çited song?
              there's an "enigma" of a missing S...
if you just listen...
it's not ich: closing in on
a lost harking...
         missing phlegm of course...
         there's clearly a sentence
bound to...                                   isch...

details of linguistic technicality
are like itches:
or tooth-aches,
   can't seem to fathom the irritating
S+ in                singing:    ich will....

     namely isch...
             or how the germans managed
to consider a phrase for:
                              shutting up!

a hornet's needle jerking off on
an ear drum...
  one russian lass once suggested
that i spoke too much: sh    sh sh    sh...
and never               hagh-shhh'd...

i know, the U would give up
the Hugh...
    not the ******* Freckled Heffner...
that: faking i'm not spanish
english actor, you know:             (  
                                                      
                                                         (
those eyes,
bypassing a fringe and not even settling on
a raised eyebrow...

******* want to dance...
   łired...
                łorth...
                         which is basically W:
who the hell calls a letter so rigid as
an upside ranging M and double-U?

      is that a real name,
                                or a prison, ksyva?
there is no iota in why or Y
               but a hollowing out,
          a mummification process...

         ******* deutsch-schprech-*****...

nibbi-nibbi: imitating a goose-quack
with the four primes above,
   and a thumb as base:
             of the hand...

        oh i agree, oxford english profs.
have nailed it perfect...
      even though there is no concept
of loan words in english
******* over hindustan...

             but there is the antithesis
of deutsch genesis,
       just shove in the hyphen and
people will read you
           Mendeleev no problem...      

remnants of old Saxon can only be found
among chemical nouns:
      hydrocrabons doesn't require
  a: cut up technique akin to
   Burroughs and Tzara
                 to mind: hydro-carbons...  

look at that ******* aesthetic!
    ugly as a hog snuffing a human
**** imploring to ask at the altar:
grovel grovel grovel:
                    turnips and birch leaves!
       truffles and caviar...
  
most impressive...
    sooner the breath of Miles Davies
squeezed through a horn,
than a sneeze let out from a pork
snout...
            both deserve applause
nonetheless:

there's a missing S, in rammstein's song
ich will:
                 must be an east berliner
"hidden" plot to harvest the dyslexics.

- because playing the grammar game,
fused with only the pronoun
category...
             well... that's not going to vork...

- mind you, in poetry,
     is like... saying: a beginning of
a "paragraph" in poetry,
   not an interjection as such,
  just a "grievance"
         with what's already in
full momentum...

              - did i mention my concern
for the apostrophe usage in englsih?
      basis of: not      use?

hence the stability, and its perpetuation:
hence: usage.

         oh we can go on and on and on
with the technicalities of "hidden" english
"orthography":
   which is really a concern for
either the aposthrope, or the hyphen....
    
reigning superior over
the literacy monopoly of priests...
    degenerate ******* suddenly took
the human route...
and did... what any new-found-literati
would:
           play the fox in a chicken-shack...

miser *******...
                   good to know who i'm
up against...
                      and i can do more in
an hour with a *******,
that you might cling to with,
a post-scriptum nasal cavity being
called a ******* with a boy
     being 30 years his senior...

  these days ****** would not have
been published...
      
fashion's playthings that are called:
the sojourn of days...
  what the french call the yewish sabbath...
   nothing out of the ordinary...
just...
               a formidable
   perplexity with a damnable reflex...
an assorted
comparison of: feeding a tiger.

           it's still a concern for me,
to mind a pluralism of the pronoun,
with a possessive article,
  and: the "innocence" of hding
letters that the english know all well
how to employ...

        ich:              theirs...

                ich:             belogning to them...

          ich:  which is i, in bavaria...

              i(s)ch to propagate speaking
german in a song, or with:

             shish kebab ***** or something?

ich:
                  chappy chappy non cheerie
chop of...                         ich...

    i hark to assert your presence, dear sir...

call it hyperbolic on the literacy
scale...
               but you move beyond
the "concern" for pronouns...
  and revel in the fact that:
   no philosophy book has ever utilised
the shortening-script
   of acknowledging grammatical
pillars...

                   you can inhale into
a rubber ***, call it a balloon, minus
the evidently loss of injecting helium:
and than -benign- the other
              with a case for a ******* umbrella!
fungus party: unlike the tree -
stood on one leg,
         and branched out in a Y -
or gott-tore?
                one revisionist argument
with:
        since the incubated pawns
of a pine forest...
                        no schizoids near an oak...
        farther that i might: "see".

               cut in:
        Pauls'               (with a zee?
                    seppelin *******!)

         certainly: Paul-seßez:
   or:            Paul's: ßyz,

    ha ha... funny alternative of cis,
which is congregational surmounting:
                    çis -
    which is not: sister.
  
what?
               ka-ka macaques *******?!

how come the close approximate
of there's and theirs?
see?! don't know how to lodge in
an apostrophe with the latter example...
but you almost itch thinking
it's necessary...

                       mind you,
i'm bilingual, i don't hide behind
     a /wəːd/ for word encoding
    to: vaguely imitate computer coding...
but there are people who
pursue this: second tier of
       a former, exhausted literacy...
              
reduced 2: not 3: as in free,
                    and that's not: too, either.
when prior to secularism
the power dynamism of the clergy
was obvious, and...
                 but now the deviat
literate can only be mad...
       where's the fun in what
continues to constitute the, grey,
everyday?
              there really is a tomorrow
to mind...
            in writing this?
         i'm just making claim that
there might be a yesterday to
contend with;

but clearly there isn't...

               ich: plural in the possessive
form,
             whatever "it" there is
that belongs to them -
                                        there's
an otherwise unexplored
          existential celibacy to not mind
this writing...

        such obscure testimony of
not: winning...
                        
    a mind in two formats:
soft- and there are virus
ridden repercussions...
   and hard- and there are...
  virtually sessions of reiterating:
there's nothing to worry
about...

   comes the age old conclusion:
there's an age-old
             sub- / ob-ject
         splinter('s) worth (an) ego
lodged in the timber of a mind,
in "metaphor" descriptive
element to attune a shovel and
                 the bristles of broom to...
mind as dust, and mind hiding...

you can't exactly "hide"
a shadow, with a hand
enlarging the capacity of your trouser
pocket to suddenly
become anti-narcissus:
      mesmerizing by staring
at your shadow,
           let alone the stillness
of the lake-water,
          or rather:
          catch-up with him by
the shoreline of a sea...
     troubled waters breed no
                                     death: sarcasm.

- and all this, to mind being in possession
of a wife, and fireplace as counter?!
            as all such comfort are
welcome...
          i can't but find a blister of a burn
i, simply can't help, but: scratch!
    it's the oink-pink hidden beneath
the unparalleled agitation
that demands my closing-in
                      of attention parameters.

a Darwinist's wet-dream, a youth's depression... i'm not surprised why the two share the same phenomenological plateau: after the said school morphed into existentialism and hit a brick wall with English utilitarianism, it's no wonder it started drawing on parallels - in the 19th century you had the fable of premature dementia - in the 21st century you'll find it hard too curb the fable of premature depression... less schizoids take their own life than premature depressed - the phenomenon of Darwinism's inquiry of the sea-turtles as naturally and intrinsically worthy pity meant that teenagers suffering from premature (unnatural) depression were simply told: aw... you'll get better... we'll just keep looking at the cruelty of nature for inspiration in the realm of sympathy... like ******* will... pharaohs of the food chain... you produced the architectural pointlessness of pyramids... myriads of the crucifix, and the cult of the tombstones... my grandmother visiting the grave of my grandparents almost every, single, day; her son couldn't care less... attaching personalities to inanimate products like cars or planes or Toy Story didn't help, either... but finding Nemo was a bit like finding the great white shark - Darwinism and Disney shouldn't mingle - pity doesn't last outside of what's petted - dogs and cats - you pity an animal outside the realm of what's pitied, you might as well be worth sushi.*

if fame isn't clenched within mortality -
if fame exists in the realm
of posthumous affairs - it exists
for the immortals to judge whether
it out be resurrected -
to be minded in the daily affairs of
inhaled oxygen -
only because the Coliseum was never minded,
but the Caesar's thumb was...
when i see fame i see only c.c.t.v.
"metaphors" - what is fame anyway?
we have a culture of fame surrounding us!
but we can hardly fathom why so many
scientists are left anonymous with their
anaesthetics and antibiotics -
in this world, what's useful is left anonymous,
what's useless is best cited - and constantly
refreshed - what is fame?
what if not cloning? it's such a shame to
be productive in aiming for such goals
rather than attempting carpentry's prodigy son -
if fame is becoming near butcher's worth of
**** and the buttocks exposed -
then fame has became absolutely devalued -
just after the 20th century the game changed -
we have devalued fame... as we have devalued currency -
fame just becomes a Friday newspaper
on the underground train foot-printed with ink-smears
and that other running-mascara -
as with so many billionaires, so with to many
famous people - the last anarchic act before the
insignificance of insects at a picnic bundle of folded
napkins became apparent - we reached the insect
paradox - not lizard cold blooded essence,
but the phobia blooded essence of insects -
the easily replaced - Auschwitz replenished within
a free society... numbers... satellite navigation -
never had i seen Narcissus so petrified with a mirror -
given that someone stole his mirror and the mirror
was shared among so many... Narcissus, synonym of
solipsism, was never so petrified as he was now -
the insect number overcame the feline king's presence -
not much thought concerning the poachers -
the insect-like numbering less the feline king's
presence - the mane completely cinematographic, suited
only for an intro roar - nothing imitable -
it was all slightly less panicky than expected -
so easily squashed the insects were, as we played gods -
but in number we became the most resembling them -
as if by prerogative to prior life on this earth...
we thumb-pressed a fly to death... as we knew in our
waking-dream that something too awaited us to be minded
as the prime venture we gave our thumb to act upon...
that, cold, lizard-like insignificance -
long before our science fiction dreams became realistic -
we realised something counter our current projection
of interests - from the tier of the cold blooded,
to the tier of the hot blooded, into the tier of
the exoskeleton where blood is confused with mush and
bone, where porridge is both brain tissue and liver tissue -
where beings are more emotionally resilient toward
phonetic stresses, as in units of encoded sounds,
and there this sense of coherency -
we look at dinosaurs with superiority of that famous
example of a brain in a pickle jar that's an anaconda -
the snake - but we're also spied against with insects -
they're looking at us - let us speak in terms of Darwinism
as is loved by those citing adaptability and 1 millions years -
well... we have all the time in the world -
the serpent the most abstract remnant of the dinosaurs
is looking at us... and he's saying: look toward the termite
mounds, and the ants as if you were Solomon...
they are the last evolutionary caricatures readied to usurp
your laughter with seriousness... they are neither
cold nor hot blooded... but simply hard-skinned
and uniform in aquatic assemblage contained within -
as once was Mars inhabitable, when Earth wasn't -
given those millions of years - capturing the speed of light
reduced our note-keeping of history as an act of
derelict intelligence - thus from capturing the speed of
light, into a history of day-to-day-day-by-day -
the plagiarism of 20th century art in the 21st -
the speed of light and the expanse of Darwinism -
strobe light historical-science - flash blink flash blink;
what is fame if we're entertained by the paupers in this realm
these days? we're not watching fame worked for,
as something resurrected out of light of interest, selflessly
attired to be cruelly exploited for selfish reasons -
watching the television (my "metaphor" for Plato's Cave)
is like watching homeless people on the street -
i see paupers of fame being paid to be paupers of fame -
the exploits of c.c.t.v. paranoia - the beggars eating lice
or maggots to support their claim to fame...
just like homeless people... the t.v. is the technological
replication of the cave, shadows... shadows...
when Mars was inhabitable Earth was the prior Venus -
the inhabitants of Mars left... and isn't Darwinism dangerous
when it comes to history? imagine two minutes tomorrow
after two p.m. - is that possible with the given kaleidoscope
of interests? Earth was once inhabitable, purest volcanic -
sending probes to Mars has already unearthed our lack
of common sense unity - communism failed,
the sea lion had his harem - we're not built to communicate
with insects' inherent dictatorial precision - hence we're less
bound to succeed in the theory of evolution -
we evolve to be selfish - we don't evolve to be collectively
minded - esp. given money - insects do that...
we're not insects... unless only in our delusional or orbit of hope...
i just wonder what resemblance we will take
to have given the abstract dinosaur - the serpent -
watching the insects evolve from the Tales of Gulliver
into the green-skinned fables of our science-fiction fancy;
what i've written down just now, will not give me fame...
it has already outlived me... it is outside of human history -
just like what modern Darwinism encapsulates,
national history when trying to govern assimilation of
immigrants with the significance of the year 1066...
and then the canvas of: millions of years ago...
the second big bang... although this one being more
complicated than based upon atoms and sub-atomic particles...
too much colour... too much ready geometry of spheres...
NO ******* WONDER THE CHEMISTS WERE LIKE:
**** IT... LET'S BECOME ALCOHOLIC BACHELORS...
THESE PEOPLE LEFT TO RIGHT ARE TOO AWE-STRICKEN
THAT IT'S POINTLESS TO TELL A STORY OF A
SATURDAY NIGHT ****-UP IN GLASGOW.

to be honest, i trully, only remember four "things"
                                      from primary school, the names:
  danielle (brown hair, freckles),
  michelle (a beauty from the philippines)
& samantha (goregous curly amber
    soaked hair, and a slightly chubby face,
that only added to the exfoliating effect
           for an added worth's of beauty),
             kerri-ann (ice-skater in later life);
let's just say i began fancying girls,
a little bit early,
having started ******* aged 8,
without ******* any *****...
oh... dar she blows!
                            and the catholic argument!
what was the argument?
                 where, *****, where baby, where
foetus, what?! now you're ******* ******* on me
with your quack quack quack... quack quack...
miracle of life, fake awe stance...
                  you ever ****** off and felt
the pleasure from the muscles tensed, being relaxed
and no ***** coming out?
           i guess that's a no then...
                   you "matured" until you
got a hand-job of phallatio from the opposite ***...
so your argument, comes from being impregnated
by a woman's ego once she did some ******
act on you...      applause!              encore!
more! more! more! more of these useful idiots!
oh i'll rip this church to shreds, should i even have
to die mad;
teaching these high moral stakes to children at school,
and you think? you think? there will not be
a backlash?
                         how about you crucify them fake
like the jews tell their children to
sing at a ******* bar mitzvah? can you
hear the songs coming from cross of 13 year olds?
  ******* sadists.
oh no, you ain't having the high ground again,
you had your chances... you ****** up,
                                   start the degenerate programme
escapade; start looking for your eyes
   in your loved one's lost pair of spectacles
lying somewhere in a dark alley;
   just fake victorian on me once, and you'll see
what happens when later desire to expose yourself
as "modern" with a ***-tape...
                what a bunch of schizoids-anti-sapiens!

oh forget defending the rights
, yeah, right, "rights",
of individuals....

forget it...

        i say one ****:
i'm supposedly to imply another:
automatically...

i love, simply love,
the discriminatory vocalization -
of off-speak....

collectively the mentally ill
are considered "conspiracy theorists*...
individually:
segregating the true
schizoids from
   psychopathic individuals...

but the suggested tame-excuse
by the mainstream?!

   some people deserve death,
and if dseath is part of their excuse...
remnants of them,
the Cain-Abyss...
    Si-Ber-Ia...

you heard me.... throw them into Siberia,
come winter....
  and then we'll have  show of arms....

i sometimes make fetish...
  thinking myself encompassed
role playing the stature
of an executioner.

   the dead own no dues!
and for the dead:
i own no allegiance to savor
life!
esp. a life taken!

               eine kopf ist eine kopf,
durch meine anzahl:

die tot: stolz ihre wohnßitz!

the universe doesn't balance itself out
when i give... what's necessary to a petted
animal...
a petted... animal...
something that's: the animation of
an otherwise inanimate worth of a table...
the eclipse of the moon...
given four legs and furr and a meow...
but... this world... this... juggernaut
realism of: lost... pondering schizoids
of: what's loss... and what's reality...
honestly?
         the fact that i burden myself
with much cuddles... much cushioning
of "troubles"...
i pet a cat... i don't farm... a ******* pig...
although... i'd love to rephrase that...
i pet a cat... i milk... a cow...
i butcher a pig... i decapitate a chicken...
i "forage" for eggs: abortions...
i enjoy caviar...
esp. smoked salmon...
cucumber... dill... mayo...
bagel... rainbow trout overies...
****! i'd eat that sort of ****
in a pancake version...
oh... right... they do that...
in st. petersburg...
    my bad...
          no... i pet a cat... i pet a dog...
if i had a dog... it would be either
a rottweiler... or a dobermann...
and his dr. evil sidekick:
the dobermann-pischner...
the drwarf ******: geek heaven citation
pwetty lingo pwetty lingo... dachshund!
         knee-cap serves: the curb...
and the jaw and bite...
expanding wonders of
copernican revisionism...
or so... the afro... was... told...
how did... the dobermann-pischner...
become the... dachshund?
ate the wrong mushroom...
watched m.t.v. at the wrong time
during the 1990s?!
the ****... happened to this... lacklustre
of... merlin...
knee-capping...
    toe-tying and the brides
of... swan-lake imitation...
ballet! that one... celebrated... circumstance...
voyeurism of sadists...
safety... netted... ******* riddled...
flap...

it aches me to pet cats...
i should be farming pigs!
i should be... fake!
i won't eat a cat... though!
      but i'd love to...
               fake the sort of "petting"
that farming livestock involves...
to borrow from the brood of beef...
the sacrificial world:
advice...
why do i pet cats... why would i love
to pet a crow?
i do so... to escape...
what i hear... when...
people treat people...
worse than... **** treats maggots...
fore-runner! summon
the german!
       vorderteillaufschiene!

  there's... a ****** good reason...
why... michael portillo... didn't become...
the next leader of the conservative party...
gnats and the blonde blush: quiff...
scandi: wind-whipped ice-cream puff...
or... whatever...

it's such a terrible pointer to make...
why one pets animals...
rather than... herd them... farm them...
it's almost like...
what reading a book is...
to counter reading journalism...
a book to counter a day in
a newspaper's point...
of... the synonym of toilet paper...
books?! monster magnet of moths
and worms...
fair enough!

          i pet animals... cats... dogs...
i farm pigs...
  i race horses...
because... i want to escape...
what still remains...
how other humans treat fellow humans...
no excuses... but there are always
excuses...

it's that sort of automated "enough":
forgoe the farming of blid obedience...
for a "love" not wroth
a karen... a return embargo... pop / ****....
chisel the tree into a toothpick...
let's call it: the birch....
              
         the sentence of a skinning
sentencing: closure... elaborate...
the: western lands...
why i will milk the cow...
jockey the camel...
and not ride... the bull...
into war... to counter the use of horse...
had i used bulls:
what worth of war hogs...
lament of the: lost leisures...

when one pets animals...
one doesn't farm them...
     chickens' cluck plucking...
aeons of sunrise...
to pet an animal:
is to farm one...
      and all that...
         which is be made...
alternative sascrificial...
****'ite islam and...
islam from persia...
isn't...
        camel jockey...
       h'arabia...
                     mecca what new
tehran...
old iran: new islam...
                  xerxes: this old grief
with old "greece"...
              before the shawls of the baltic...
sea come forth... come late:
and the blood boiling: to the brim...

i am tragic... tsar impressions...
i better pet a cat..  loss of leash...
i better pet a dog: leash included...
lessen: the farming
of poultry abortions...
i pet dogs... i farm... cows...
i endeavour to eclipse the buddha...
in how... chimpz became...
giddy-to-fathom-how-man:
and the hugh-mann...

i pet details of lost art...
because... the chickens flouted...
the concept of pigeon flight...
and the crow-pecking...
MORAE... mora varies:
the universe of punctuation...

to pet a cat... to tame a dog:
to befriend: via leash...
to harnass a horse...
such befriending alienation...
the crisp loot of the petted...
not farmed..
and... the reality of...
"who's who" of the detail
of chimp treating the next to nothing...
loop / loot of a gorillaz
loitering: kin: next...
            
    no... the end...
     here's me to... loitering over
your grave...
and when... madame tussauds...
takes to concern itself
with... the better lived-up second
cause... for excusing...
the last... run;
morose over the drying of ink...
and the best... equipped...
loitering of... hybrid wax:
told! rodin never could...
scoop... a better "hiob".

funny, "that",
no jihadi was ever supposedly
ever, associated
with, mental illness...
empathy is a bitter
fruit to taste...
   isn't it?
suddenly muslims become
a protected
class... and we,
the zookeepers...
  have to ensure...
they remain so...
upon the shoulders
of dwarfs of easy assumptions...
that's what the majority fear...
i'm listening to more
and more diatribe...
and all i'm hearing
is the shock & awe tactic,
left, right, center of
the "debate"...
      excuses come
second...
          whatever groundwork
being established for the right,
some outlier comes
out and does the horrific...
******* clowns-run-the-circus
type of pandemonium...
what's lacking?
oh... right...
   so this is what empathy feels
like, to reply to Manchester,
Rotherham, etc., etc., etc.,
so...
this isn't o.k.?
yeah, yeah! what sort of idiot
finds success in mawling down
49 innocents,
when 3 jihadis fail
to take down 10?!
  ******* idiot...
off his rockers...
      yeah, yeah...
    wrote in the kind of cipher
that only mercury rising
autistic children are able
to decipher...
   complete ******!
let's insult him some more...
a BIG no no
for anyone listening
to choir songs...
          who? templars...
akin to salve regina...
now it's bad...
it's all bad,
it was always bad,
it was supposed to be bad,
and... i...
somehow...
was expected to feel:
good about it.
                 now?
now the pendulum game of
waiting,
  for the reply...
it usually takes around a month,
for the geniuses of Raqqa
to come back at us with
a compliment...
  until then...
  no stupid low i.q. jihadi
warriors...
just some stupid,
psychiatric evaluation prone
examples of piglet-skinned
outliers...
               well yeah...
thanks for the congregation...
for congregating the orthodox
schizoids with
the authentic, world-stage
killers...
   nice...
     ******* pristine aesthetics!
******* protected class...
what?!
  they were imitating performing
**** with their god,
looking at the way they pray?
****... if i supplied myself
to a confirmation,
i'd be performing
              ******* on my knees...
how many jihadi "warriors"
have you heard of,
that also supplied the general
public / journalists
with a, manifesto?
             can't name one...
but now, that's a bad thing,
a big no no,
              you can't do that...
you can't provide a genesis
of a narrative...
obviously...
not one jihadi was suspect
of a psychiatric disorder...
but... all these white counter-terrorists?
the whole lot of them
are schizophrenics...
now... i can understand
the general public processing
the disease on ground of metaphor...
then again,
the supposed the ratio of example:
1 case every 100 people...
how many of those 1 per 100 people
are blamed?
easily confined in a category reserved
for psychopaths?

no problem...
deflect...
      but the standard is already
settled:
no jihadi is mentally ill...
but all counter-jihadis, are...
  shame isn't even on the table
when playing this poker-game...

didn't you know?
jihadis are perfectly normal...
they are expected
to behave thus,
as whatever thus is,
in later installments...
    but the terrorist within?
instead of the 72 virgins,
he gets 72 insults...
and a pseudo-medical
    statement...
no jihadi was ever considered
mentally ill...
but... every white
counter-terrorist:
is a mental nut-job...
         look! look! he wrote a manifesto!
****... he's not dyslexic...
he's a meme aggregate...

like i already said...
what he did?
   it would probably take 3 jihadis
to complete...
no... wait... 137 divided by 7...
around 19 per head...
   (paris, bataclan)...

        ha ha...
mass ****** and the i.q. of
the mass murderer...
   sort of, deviating from the i.q.
debate concerning blacks
and whites...
more like...
   lone wolf attacks and jihadi
attacks...
   what?! it's red nose day!
              you just, 'ave to laugh!

if they're going to place
mental illness and stupidity
on brenton tarrant...
   legally: isn't he allowed
the warrant of defence?
          so i'm the objective scrutiny
of retelling comparative
counter examples...
      
              as stupid as 49 dead per head...
a jihadi gets...
          around 20 dead per head...
i forgot to condemn,
and succumb to outrage...
like: it would give me a better
moral compass to navigate
through all the social outrage...
i, simply, forgot...

   but look on the bright side!
at least he managed
to spread a revised concensus
for the appreciation
of empathy...
at least now...
innocent muslims,
can appreciate what innocent
christians felt,
when they were attacked upon,
indiscriminately;
and with the same, "bias".

perhaps REM had that song: night-swimming...
if i could write a song it could be
something along the lines of...
   night-cycling... esp. in winter... gloves, long sleeves,
t-shirt... jumper...
a wooly hat...
and... U2's electrical storm (the william orbit mix)...

what was once a Thai trans-gender phenomenon...
transcendental-genderism...
the Thai-surprise... emerged in the west
like some, language restrictions...

fair enough when the transition period
ends up convincing me,
but what if i can't call a "hammer" a 'hammer'?!
what then? am i supposed to pluck my
eyes out, lie to myself...
if a trans-male passes off as fuckable,
if a trans-male passes off as attractive
to the opposite ***...
fair game... open season...
but if that's not the case... let my just
amputate by ******* phallus...
raise it in the air and swing it like some
raw deal mr. *****... for ****'s sake...

so much for mere burning bras...
if this subject matter has its recurrence gravitas...
i think i'll just stop merely thinking,
and writing: altogether...
it was fair enough when the Thai lady-boys
did it... but those Thai lady-boys,
those Thai-surprises didn't invest themselves
in changing language:
i can see authentic dysphoria when i see it...

don't change my language: ergo....
i will not change your feelings, decisions to change
your preferred ***...
the ancient Greeks had a notion of reincarnation...
they deemed men reincarnated as women
as lesser creatures, a form of punishment...

if reincarnation is to be minded: well, originally,
there are only a fixed number of individuals
that pass from one life to another,
the rest are just zombies...
parasitical souls... host bodies...
there's currently a backlog of reincarnations
taking place... it's almost like we're living
in times where the last judgement is taking place...
in the metaphysical realm...
hence we're noting all these... outlier concerns...

"concerns"...
if the topic wouldn't creep up, i wouldn't be
writing about it, but the topic infringes on my language...
gender neutral pronouns, which were already
available via the Royal One and the Royal We,
for ****'s sake! for ****'s sake!

one ought to...
we ought to...
                 what about languages that employ
noun distinctions via: a masculine form, or a feminine form?
i know that English (as a language)
doesn't apply these distinctions...
can't a chair be masculine?
you can't rid certain languages of... "sexing up" their nouns...
it's inherent in them... that's why this
lineage of argumentation is so successful
in the English speaking word... grammatical bypassing
techniques...

it;s like a pet peeve...
but... there's winter...
(a) you get drunk quicker,
(b) you breathe cleaner air, air so clean you almost choke
(c) the insects are hibernating
(d) the trash doesn't stink
(e) people are dulled, lullabied into submission...
(f) the nights are longer
(g) you get to employ the use of pockets more
often, not to hide items of interest,
more... to shelter your hands,
should you not be equipped with gloves...
(h) snow, if, any...
(i) the moon entertains the night sky more often,
more so than in summer,
it's the winter sky riddled with constellations...
+ the moon....
evidently missing during the spring or summer
months...
opaque nights, when the moon is absent...

some (j)? maybe.... pull me up before i decide
to drown....

i better be doing the duties of chores,
than merely lounging...
women live a waste of tine....
my mother best invoked...
if i can't invest in my mother,
i can't translate that to a woman
i'd ****... period...
whatever, seriously, whatever...
time's up!

  language ambiguity...
there's either a formal rule of language...
or there's an informal rule of language....
some schizoid framework...

i want to rub my hands together...
i want to make fire from friction..
i want to doubly desire a skeleton...
i want to "hush"... rather... breathe into my cusp
of hands to warm them up...
  
pouring cold water onto cold hands...
it sometimes makes them feel:  warmer...
god... girls... even 50+ with fringes...
then again: i prefer pixie girls
with short-hair... but that's just me...
toy bring toy...
**** it... let's play the proper sort of games!

ha ha... Alexander Dumas taught me one thing,
and one thing alone:
don't give advice... some people will regret it...
Alexander Dumas or... Athos, Oliver Reed...
how "they" treated this poor drunk when he was
shying away from his prime...
little, suffocating, sociopaths...
   little people, terrible people... somehow...
"necessary" people...
i'd die twice to be thrice honest...
i'd live this once... to...
    ensure everyone lived it so, under their disguise
of individual rights...
best be left, forgotten...

coaching packages, blah blah... just, *******, swim...
or... better... take up bicycling!
Athos or Aramis? Athos.... but i'm renowned to be prone
as the joker, team player... a Porthos...

ugly truths... i also fancied a richard chamberlain...

you don't come against my use of language
without consequences...
a Thai surprise is one thing,
but telling me, what i ought and ought not say?
is another... i will raise Adolf & Satan himself
should you overbear your concerns:
which are no concerns to begin with!

don't tread on eggshells that become
hostile objects! keep me in mind, don't leave me out
on hostile grounds... you want to go home,
i want to go home, there's a football match taking place...
appease me, while i tease you... let's pretend i'm
in a position of authority...
let's, just, pretend... savvy?

thank god for my figure... 6ft2... 98kg.. a beard... i might just look menacing enough, when the park has been emptied... that's the reception i got, from the faces in the crowd... they read: i saw you in my dreams! i liked that...

i forgot about love a long time ago,
i forgot about being endearing to toddlers,
even though, i can't tell them apart to cats, or dogs...
it was almost a pleasantry to forget about love,
i don't think i want to experience that
uprooting of sensation...
i don't want to feel loved,
the sensation of feeling loved would...
weaken me...
i don't want to feel being loved...
i like this... impartiality of the impersonal...
it leaves me with a three-dimensionality of a a person...
what good is love,
when you can't trust someone?
what good is love,
when you can't... be assured?
what good is love...
when it's only mitigated via
being loved: rather than also: loving?!

i curse these days!
so seemingly pristine! best they be kept
forgotten!
there's no love here...
at least there's minding a civil obligation...
but love?!
i can't be ***** into loving someone,
whatever trans-racialism is invoked...
you want me to **** a man
pretending to be a woman?!
no thank you...
you want me to **** an African woman
pretending she's Asian?
what, you're going to inject me with
some Sildenafil? am i to receive an
"auto-correct" hard-on, for ****'s sake?!

the war is staged... it's not yet physical...
come on... it's still in its infancy... wait a while..
give the chess pieces a moment to somehow
"reflect" on their re-coordinated repositioning...
wait a little... it takes time...
me being ******* is no clear assumption that
things will turn awry...
it takes time, dedication, repetition of already
stated mistakes...

wait a little... live a lot...
come to think of it... if they, "they" gave me a rifle...
tomorrow... i think i'd be bound to being found as:
trigger-happy... sowwy... i think i could... i would be...

oh but i'm pretty sure this current zeitgeist of politico has already ******* a wrong type of crowd... the schizoids & the psychotics... if i'm on board, if i'm being receptive to, their sentiments and i think them bogus... n'ah... n'ah ah ah ah, ah... sorry... this will not pass, not even: nicht sogar mich! not even me!

as a man in Warsaw:
i feel like a fox in London...
as a man in Warsaw
i feel like a fox in London...

why do crows only fly in pairs over the skies of
England... why do they,
flock on the continent, in swaths,
in such numbers as to secure them
the stature of intimation?
as if, Barbarossa is to be resurrected?

i, believe, once had the sole
ambitions of either becoming
a bus driver:
never learned to drive a car,
but ride a horse?
sign me up...
   squeeze the flank
with the right heel,
tug the bit (that piece
of equipment,
in between the proper
tooth alligned missing chew;
with the bit...
horses are always make
a placebo to imitate chewing)
left...
              heels pressing on
the right side of the horse's canvas
of torso...
the hands gravitating toward
the left with the head...
the horse moves left....
  i can ride a horse...
god help me should i ever
drive a car...
what thrill is there behind
speeding in a car
or on a motorbike,
dislocated soul missing
the prancing horse?
i guess driving a car,
is about as pointless
as attaching a leash
to a cat, thinking it's a horse,
or a string to a butterfly,
thinking it's a ******* kite!
all i ever wanted was
to occupy a music shop...
you know what
system of a down did
that all the punk bands of the mainstream
missed?
   reducing the attention span
of the listener
to under 3 minutes;
genius.
      my ambition to become a bus-driver
came with,
bus route no. 5...
                   and that's where it
ended...
since i vaguely remember
every taxi journey i ever took...
not like bus no. 86 from romford
to stratford, dropping me off
to school...
    very important people in
"our" midst...
          tall *******,
dwarf mothertfuckers,
rabbits, hybrids,
      schizoid outliers...
just your usual tabloid press...
you really have to be a *******
****, to ******* a paraoid schizophrenic...
akin to?
   imagine:
left in limbo,
of being forever: suspect...
on a minority report
      potentiality list of:
             dormant tragedy...

"voices", what "voices"?
         permanent suspect...
   that substance called the ease
of thought, with which
one has the ease to think?
it sometimes
               can become akin to...
less a bullet,
        and more shrapnel...
who the **** is appeasing who...
first they tell me
   they kept the prisons,
then they told me
they got rid of the asylums...
         and...
the orthodox chronic madmen
are readily running free,
ensuring mild psychiastric conditions
are being exfoliated out
of proportion?
  now, go back,
and tell the mild symptom
sufferers that there's a hierarchy
of madness...
   psychotic pharaoh sits on the top...

but i acknowledge, in the least,
that there's a gradation
of the experience of thought,
the placebo solipsist: normal...
   am i a tailor,
or am i a ******* butcher?
take your pick within the confines
of tabloid press lack of
verbiosity, eloquence,
or the general standard of etiquette,
confined to a standard aesthetic...

     did they **** the prize
bull ed gein... or did they keep him
alive for the better part of 20 years,
extracting cultural inspiration
from him? nay, 40 years later
by my best estimate!

to have to pander to the "natural"
sequence of events...
abnormalities of youth...
so there are no outliers...
or the outliers need to be shamed...
tabloid bullied...
until... another takes to
extreme measures...
but the retards can ******* in
public, because mommy & daddy
decided to have an "accident"
child in their mid-years,
only to increase their income
with the ****** chequers...

         pass me the blunt knife,
i feel like scratching my face...
it's just... just so plain ******* itchy!

so i'd say: wanna play with
the big boys?
the medium of thought...
and the medium...
where there's both
the disinhibited will,
and the shrapnel of will...
what no one would dare
call remnants of identity,
rather: remnants of the "ego"...

      i'm already strapped
to a tabloid assortment of tabloid spew,
the perfect suspect...
   seemingly:
only english schizoids are
tender, loving, creatures!
   the rest of us...
are...
  forever, suspect.
      no crime was committed...
unless...
******* in an alley on a friday
night, when all the brits get wasted
in essex is worth being handcuffed
and scream at by some boppy...

                                 well...
knife crime...
m'eh...
          do i have a face
of a person, that does,
                     or should, give, a ****?

see... madness is in no way
related to i.q.,
   stupid people go mad,
smart people go mad,
what matters is,
how you tap into the madness,
and what's left
to relieve you from
ever having to perform
a disinhibited act of
spontaneity, akin to homocide...

sane people perform more
grevious acts than madmen...
given that they perform them
with: premeditation...
with no: outside-inner
3rd party influence of, "voices"
to excuse themselves with...

   no, i will not be prevented from
being fascinated by
schizophrenics...
      fat chance of that happening...
i'd love to spend
a summer at the broadmoor hospital;
for once,
i might have a chance to
meet some interesting people...

conscience:
be careful what you wish for...

what? that and reading
sh'ight akin to the tabloid daily mail...
and no the sunday times?

why wouldn't i be fascinated
by schizophrenics?
when i'm entrenched bilingual?
i thought we were exchanging
ideas in the same currency
of metaphors?

       what's the difference
between being ridiculed...
                      and being patronißed?
- the entire basis for man
exacting law,
   was founded upon
extracting vectors of judgment,
                     via a thesaurus...
synonyms to some,
antonyms to others...
                 pedantic quests for
                          others...
             depends what you might
need a blunt knife for,
depends what you might need
a sharp knife for...
   and there's a difference...
     last time i heard...
a jihadi john wasn't using a sharp
knife to behead someone,
never mind using an axe...
he needed a blunt knife...
something akin to:
spreading butter on a warm
                                   slice of toast...

one might suspect...
what cancer?
   ever looked at a tree riddled
                      with mistletoe?
"voices"...
what an obscure term...
to deem ego-shrapnel
        a foreign entity of sorts...
in the multiple-form
of the varying symptom...

        again: even if you manage
to control this symptom...
forget it...
you're forever suspect,
    riddled by a minority report...
of the 0.1%
of the population...
the rest?
  too busy to walk into
a nightmare,
let alone dream out a counter-,
an inhibition,
a waiting game...
with enough time...
to watch the day-to-day
          modern suburban gothica.
          
i only had two dream jobs...
either a bus-driver...
or...
     someone working in
a music shop...
   like: good ******* luck...
if either of these will ever
come into fruition;
more like:
supermarket
shelf-stacker...
   but not... a tabloid-press
columnist...
                                    phew!

/                      that "we" can even conceive
of a subjective "reality":
                              to be frank -
within the immaculate
fascination regarding things?
the last "thing" i'd expect
would be an:
                         anti-taoist!
let me ease it out of you...
               yew (play catch)....
now the oak... (silly head)...
                             and now the acorn
(woo scoth): both imply a tree...
     i have no morbid fascination
with germanic thinking...

               i am inclined
to the modes of asiatic feeling...
a heart, hidden
within the gesture of making
a bluff...
                   "squint" eye...
  and you'll just perhaps spot...
or miss...
                 an addition to an experience
of reality:
                with an oyster...

mongol: focus!
i leverage leaving a harp with you,
so that it doesn't
become a metaphor of, "the"
falling piano in a new york
                       "redemption"...

                     death by presumption, eh?

an allowance of a "world"
        should only allow finite gestures
for a "world" to actually exist...
transcendental...
     trans-temporal objectives?!
             even in the confined
mono-spatial
                concern for a: "world"?
              complete the cure
                       dis-,
i.e. embodiment...

                               just shy "off":
                            integration.
metaphor
becomes less an image...

      and misnomer becomes
more the vocabulary...

    of expecting b & w...
                      (no,
                not ******* and wanking
"zeppelin" manoeuvres)...

             just any day...
but more invited to experiencing
a wintry sunday in
                                 tokyo...    
prior to the celebrated
    bloom of
                               cherry trees...  

then i'll live content...
having lived a thousand lives...
but only died by the bitterness
of merely one of them...

       and to the grave
with no epitaph:
         i would...
                   bring my own dust...

       for then no god,
no interpolation of freedom,
no night...
           and no comforting
into a settling of...
   curse the winds!
                          a wonderful
argument
   of / for reminder...
                 counter:
                         the VI or IV in vivo!

            vitriol!
              and vivacious originates
                from the wrong... prefix of 4?

                nearing the 8th billion:
we can all understand to be
                                        diffusive, yes?
ah...
              the attention seeking,
supposedly, "lagging behind", yes?
            
        the holocaust victims
were entertained by
         die Nürnberger prozesse
(definite article in the instance
of but one definite example...
so much for using german)...

          so what's the "problem"?
  jew not jew enough to be compensated
by a german?!
      polacks weren't compensated
by germans...
                            huh?!
   the americans didn't exactly
               pay the ****. for dropping
the atom bomb...
     paranoid schizoids
   "minding" that other nations
don't drop the nuke:
like the good attention-deficit-disorder
laugh of a.d.h.d. wanks (yanks)
that they are don't
make a...
          awry footing in
               a military presentation march...
no!
             you have this much grounding
within the confines of expediency!
afterwards?!
                fair play.

well Bukowski and the drudgery of work
and Mathias Eshlert
and the arbeit macht frei of
work about
to cook chicken wings
    and make a potato salad with spring
greens
and radishes
and i remember a line from a movie
form the 1950s
how radishes were the supposed cause
of going mad
or rather not marrying a girl
because a witch cast her eyes
on the to-be-wed
i mean:

          at the Leeds vs Southampton
match a manager with no high viz
then you know you're dealing
with someone senior
(not important, senior, there's a distinction
at work,
there is no hierarchy as such
only tenure,
there needs to be a philosophy of work
and there really isn't a philosophy
of work
there are no philosophical works
concerning the philosophy of work
but you can mention
Heidegger's analogy of the hammer
in that there are these supposed
laborers who are working
and while working they talk about
philosophy

well currently the hot topic in the workforce
and we are talking a predominantly
male working environment there is talk
about history and esp post-colonial history
of the English
a talk of the English before the union
with the Welsh and the Scots
it's as if these former colonial subjects
think it is easy to find an English identity
from all the quashed qualms with
the Scots
and to be honest

i've seen father bring back construction
schematics
and read them

i finished writing the poem Alz Heinz
and decided to go and buy a bicycle
waited like a **** / a stump
at the bus stop for eternity and realised
with the fresh air hitting me...

yesterday this manager approached me
and gave me a bundle of A3 pages
crowd control schematics
which is a dynamic schematic
of colored dots
on construction schematics
and we're talking dynamics
given i was only in charge
of 3 guys to cordon bag restriction measures
and we weren't even drawn onto the schematic
there were the soft ticket checkers and their
two supervisors, roughly 30 of them
and there were the two response teams
and their supervisors but
there was no... SSE? that's code for EES
we weren't on the schematic
but i was given the schematic drawings
it's a dynamic affair
exposing the left hemisphere to such drawings
so with my right hemisphere
i turned the drawing into a dynamic
could call it spurring on a hallucination
or rather
i just heard of this theory of the brain
and its asymmetry only today
getting the blues from a day off
lying in bed
no i will not listen to the audible book

in the end father picked me up
and we sped to the shop
to flash cash
but instead got turned down
because only used bicycle can be ridden out
of shop not display bicycles
i truly felt like a ******
or perhaps this time is precious
and i shouldn't feel embarrassed to have
family perhaps there's this familial stigma
burn in the air of modern society
that you sometimes experience
the CRAB BUCKET...

         KRABBEIMER
    MISTEIMER...

              i was handed down a holy grail
no, of no importance
my neighbor came round and they chit chat
with mother
no the day is still not spent
but just refreshing the memory:
kept the memory it jolted me in the fresh air
should have kept the schematic memorandum

in the end i was supervising  four supervisors
an ego-trip now
when written
but an ego-destruction in live time
yesterday
negotiating with Leeds fans
and i managed to persuade people to throw
away their rucksacks
unprecedented when on gate 3
working with the quadrant manager
Marc "zee Frenchie"
i.e. i was tested for quadrant stature
on the east stand with the two staircases
if i were to be given both staircases
and Altantik Way
but just saying the fact that i was given
the schematics
it almost felt like i advanced
away from construction
but construction made alive
by people using venues post-construction
and these are no houses
we're talking about
but the two arguments that make my life
easier when dealing with rowdy customers
(of experience)
is that: you don't walk with a drunken
hard-on to argue and fight in a supermarket
so please excuse our staff from
dampening your little euphoric excursion
to watch a concert or a football match
never mind
i always thought that supposedly appreciating
any sport while intoxicated
is the ultimate debauchery
of spirit and of heart and the **** of fog of mind
because when it comes to utilizing
alcohol and **** i need
music and the capacity of literacy
a literate agency
a stress of not being a surgeon
an architect a werewolf or pirate
in the sexed-up mixocology of feminine hormones
of studying attractiveness levels
ugh that 1 - 10 scaling
like it's so ******* vague but so vogue
so distraught am i
ugh...

         12h standing the commute sit-down
doesn't help
i need to kneel to relax the shins
i need to kneel and write
idle hand's ******* jesus
or satan
last time i heard the devil appreciated
more the idle pleasure of typing
typo itchy fingertips
or if no itchy fingertips then
people biting their fingernails
last time i heard
keratin does not taste of carrot
and there is not carrot taste to be found
in biting nails
or ******* hair
although i must agree that i love
a little bit of hair just above the ****
maybe i'm old fashioned
but that's my sexuality
and i have had Ilona aged 20
when she was all happily shaved
but then i think about:

puff pastry, candyfloss
and the burrowing of the nose
in both hair then oyster of the *****
and then i remind myself of, only recently,
scratching myself till i bled on
the stubble that appeared with chin
after a 10 year tenure of Robinson Crusoe
although i must say
with some Turkish tailoring in the barber
category of aesthetics
but i do like some fluff just above
the **** i'm about to eat
and if Jesus was a Woman
i would have given an oyster to eat
instead of bread

    and Eidie this is a religious experience
to counter your "chirst":
cosmopolitan joke
choke i swear to god the apycryp...

nassfotze!                nassfotze!

i'm done with spelling this one word got away
i will keep it live
and abrupt
seriously there is no need to oblige the editorial
process this is not getting printed
but then printing was cheap
back around 900ad in Baghadad
i don't understand the European fascination
with firsts
that printing press was hardly revolutionary
but made so by the second christians
of Alexandria i.e. the Mongols in Baghdad
set us back over 1000 years
what a trip
thank you: so many people in Pakistan
have the surname Khan
like that was the Mongolian ***** deposit
that precipitated with the surname
that was once a title

Genghis probably Great Magnitude of Charlie
Can do what the **** i can
not-transliterated as Khan with the surd H
to give an almost diacritical emphasis
given its inclusion but overall silence...
the eyes see what the tongue is ought not speak
the eyes see what the tongue ought not speak
                     the eyes see what the tongue is not to speak...
wow wow wow what a strange word
this ought...

             oh jeez and Louise and i'm getting
all tremor enamored
all tremor enamored
30 messages no reply
finally i replied after three days of 12h hour
shin breaking shin straining
like torture
before kneeling and writing into the night
high puff no ****! and somehow i'm gone
like there was no magic act

oh how i'd wish for this earth to swallow me
how i've grown
and maybe understand women
through that little tickle
and then downing myself with *******
today i managed to **** a *****
from a ****
honestly i just tweaked my fingers
on a semi limp ****
and i ******* lazily into my underwear
and the stuff of life soon clotted
and all fluid glue associations shrunk
and it felt like the botanical world
of talking trees didn't realise
anything about the existence of mushrooms
and that fungus is not exactly
a botanical leech
parasite i mean a turnip is not a fungus
is not a mistletoe
is what i missed when towing mist and le
and ole
and it just needs to feel like a conversation
of consolations
and it can't just be a babe screetching
on the other end of the telephone
and me trying to compliment and reward her
face because that's what she's primarily
concerned with: her face
as i was somewhat too
because of my double chin
or whatever
and me using a beard as a contortion feature
not a tool
since the face uses it and not the hands
it can't be called a tool
but a feature
since the face like hands does many things
and it's the work of hefty
crowd management techniques
that disparage me from the service provided
at retail shops
where things are sold
yet but this is premeditated
i'm going to have a good time mentality
of spending money in advance
this industry concerns itself with
CREDITORS
and not DEBTORS
we entertain creditors -
not by how they spent the money
but how they spent the money in advance
to be there:
dasein - which is so far removed from what
Heidegger might have implied
in the airs of the Black Forest in complete
dissociation from throngs
and the bellows of Behemoth
o the pangs of the hundebeiarbeiten -
the talk of police dogs you have to see it
the talk of police horses you have to see it
up close and personal
and you have to **** the ego and experience
of the body of id in all its glory
constipated, tired, hungry, wet, cold,
hot, angry, stupid, angry, stupid
you have to shut off all narrative
and so many people in this Wembley-Mecca
this trance like mantra of a h'um dl'um
ah'um dl'um -
indeed that apostrophe could be indeed judged
as the letter Y'od
             Yyod                  why-yod of the wide ought
and then hide the letters GH
and instead OH'T...
         like you write the letters but hide their sounds
in Gloucester
asked me this guy Andrews
who works with the Nigerian Sunday
(his name, Monday Monday,
literary scene had a Friday)
Andrews is Ghanaian
and he's fresh
i mean he's not what one could call
descended from slaves
honestly you get to pick up
the African original the african original
pride and love for life
not this stench of post-colonial dread
of: jeez still living with these former slave owners
and ooh come on why didn't
we go back to Africa
and why are the old Africans coming to Europe
to tease us or whatever
spiraling with stadium concerts calling for
Africa Unite blah blah semi Black ******
also comes with Black Jesus...
don't ask me how but honestly Black Jesus
comes with Black ******...

Abu Dribble i feel like escaping into naked
lunch rather not fascination with Arab historiology
from the 10th century
or a German thinker...
although i must know that if dog in german is hund
pies in ******
then horse in english a koń in polish
means horse in german is...herseh?
           no... the diacritical mark doesn't help
no room for transliteration like
in semitic languages
between 'rab and                                        Heb'

what is horse in german? d'uh!

pferdbeiarbeiten...

            not the sort of horses i swear are we the last
people to work as humans with animals
are we the last stronghold
we are not Bukowski genius to drink and read
sparingly the postman
i mean we are not farmers because farmers
no longer use animals
to work
instead
i mean: are we the last professions on this planet
to work with animals
i love working with animals
so much so that i'm petting one on the side
if i were to take a cat into the life cycle
of a dog or a horse
we breed these animals for a purpose

have you ever worked with horses
and dogs
in a crowd management environment
it's like double the high
of being high at a concert
when you come back from work and unwind
and have the side project to write
down everything bubbling to the boil in your
head your ego-death
and then the ego-resurrection
with a concentrated focus on narrative
that requires it to be written down
rather than aired / thought

and then release like a sling with no shot
just the snap of the sling
against the skin to wake up

KREISEL

  kreisel...

          spinning top is not even a word...
it's a worded ideogram...
without an actual ideogram
SPNNNGTP   looks better...
best to have that printed and framed
and advertised...

       Bączek...  well then... my neighbour
brought me one of those in a 50p
bag of goodies...
there was that and there was blowing
bubble machinery
i don't know does she think me *******
or happy or did i come to the fore
of children at large events and
i was authority and i was benevolence
and i'm still thinking of the jobs
that make humans interact with animals
and i know it's not in farming
as such especially when pig farming
i mean farming with plow and not plough
or maybe the two are not that far apart
because this is not the sort of euphoria
experienced at an event
this is a private euphoria
and not simply of just being there...
i.e. the opposite of Dasein
the opposite of Dasein is Seinda -
being there i.e. a place an event a polity
a necropolis is by far the best strain
flex and then thrown into this disarray
   of fates and omens and ills of people since now
even these people venture out
in the full abode of sky... wheelchairs and scissors
and schizoids...

i said i need to write this is not a novel
if anything this is also not Zukofsky's A
because by god that looks good
on paper but not in that voice
              since i'm thinking that's the last masquerade
but still the impetus to write
and why not record with Charlie but then
Charlie etc was also in the same circumstance
as me or then
sober does it: great parody of the formal
                    in whatever order of magnitude -
yes those wax eyes wore
off and then night came and i toked some more
and not to excess in drinking i obeyed
t.v. rules for half an hour
but then the show was so disastrous
that the only thing i was looking at was
laila rouass
   and thinking of my woman and yes he's 48
and she's 52
and i'm pretty sure Edie wants to make
it adamantly so
that there's that tease of *******
in that she's 55 and i'm 38 and she's still not sure
what
in what the hell would that mean
when the ages shrink
and then there's also the age disparity
between the other forbidden love of necrophilia
and that's not really as prominent
in society as *******
                                         well who knows
the statistics show...

                             but at least now: silence...
i have not given excuses but
pointers as to what i also do: alias no alias
persona non grata
                                should i fly above the aqua politik -
sieve through
this spectacular advent of man
this spectacular celebration
because honest to god and winter months apart
there is this air of celebration in man
with the obvious hags and anchors
and drags from the past but still the perserverence
is there to mindlessly go forward
without any static of but one universe
instead so many others to come
should this only be one experience
i doubt there might be more
with brain-deaths and heartaches
                          
                                      brain-labyrinths
and loud-libraries
                          or those pirates -
the pigeons at Baker Street...
some travel as far as Amersham
and Chesham on the Metropolitan Line
for their holidays from the city
you can see them on the trains anchored
coming into the carriages looking for
pecking orders...
and then as the train speeds on tracks
they fly about less
like bothersome flies
but as frightened animals: that they are...

                  and we are not?