Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.

.i've come the one sober conclusion that concludes all other "necessary" conclusions, drunk. the consumption of alcohol and sunlight should never, ever, mingle; it's just plain silly, bad for the usual mood associated with drinking.

what do you get when you
"conflate"
   a post-existentialism movement
whereby, each, and, every, sentence,
looks, like, this,
   or invokes,
"something" akin to "this"?

      comma contra the ditto /
nuance?

          contra-points
meets buffolo bill
meets lily savage...
meets: whatever marylin mason
critique you have
in that head of yours...

and, yes, the platitude standards
of kant was a feminist,
plato was a feminist,
but now...
   i don't even know who
a feminist ist...

   (on purpose "added" T)...
pose...

       a sunday newspaper article,
reads...
    'sting at ******* lays bare
feminist split over *** work'...
i'm either ******* trans-confused
or just gender-huh?

hell, if we're going to ****
around with language,
numb-skull our experience with /
against it...
           good thing i learned
a few chemistry prefixes...

ortho- probably implies cis-,
trans- could imply meta-
when attached to ***,
but not the benzene ring...

    it's one thing transcending
the geography of Copernicus,
quiet another...
to "revise"...
using these vectors,
akin to the benzene ring,
ortho-, meta-,
oh, right... you forgot the para-,

nice thought,
use chemistry vector coordinates
for binding groups,
they're all here,
meta-, ortho-, para-,
      cis-, trans-,
       it's almost like a new
pantheon for the demigods...

the "metaphysics"
of transgender...
cis-,
  "on the side of",
side of what?
   a cupcake 1 +
     happy-birthday singalong,
or, what?

  well, given that biological
reality did the whole: bye bye
and a queen elizabeth II wave...

    the best part of me,
is not about to make sense of all of this...
i'll leave that to the journal-enlists...
       me, back in a *******
in athens,
unable to tell the difference
between a greek and a libyian...
because you know how
the mediterranean folk like:
smelly sheep herders
greasy, damaging good looks,
and an aura of that:
dangerous brunette...
not anything like us baltic folk...
downing raw herrings
in a piquant mingle of oil
and white vinegar...

      anyhoo...
       giggles exhaust me...
so i did get a chemistry degree
"for something", after all...
         classical chemistry
prefixes, required to draw
electron travel schematics...
mostly associated with
the benzene ring,
if ortho-, meta- and para-
positioning is "in question"...

cis or trans isomers...
**** me, i used to study this...
organic chemistry was
my soft-spot...
       a bit like what
cooking curries later became...
eh... brew some ester...
get a perfume out of it...

        but even at university
level they didn't teach me
how to extract polyethylene...
i guess it was polyethylene...

   like the whole oil rests
above water,
for the love of god i don't remember
what two liquids were involved,
one sat above the other,
and you'd pinch
the "event horizon"...
and pull threads of
the polyethylene from it...
strings of plastic...

          so, this current, philosophy
playing with a chemistry tool-kit
invoked into propaganda berlin /
weimar lone no loan woe?

                        sure, i'd buy it...
but up to a point...
    i'm sniffing around and have
come to the following conclusion...
someone...
is really in dire straits...
wishing that gwanp'ah soviet
came back
to settle the equilibirum...
        this current feeding of
a lost void is...
       not helpful...
       as i see it...
   it will take much more than
a ****** to nanny the riddled
males of the capitalistic
  "under-class"...
   queen bee, isn't going to "cut it"...
if she's no gargantuan
***** black 'ole... is "she"?

      and the whole gender neutral
pronoun, schtick?
   that's only worth so much...
sooner or later...
        "they'll" be gagging
for the guns of navarone...

the current mumbo-jumbo
is... alkenes
to me:  cis-2-butene
                     trans-2-butene...
background noise...
  
ugh... chemistry:
             algebra, for the truly wicked.
     but let's entertain
this kindergarten play talk
for a while longer;
no one wants to see a dangling
poopie suffocated by
a g-string,
                  do we?

Since our political system has been laid bare, after RumputiN was installed
in the Blackhouse, it's beautiful complex of lack of complexity, in a word,
conspiracy of conspiracies, has moved me and "...we(e),..." to have as a few
of my favorite things be far more reaching questions, out of necessity. Like,
without acknowledging, and demanding others do the same, that it's been
purposely engineered to be a criminal injustice system instead, how can one
even have a real conversation that would lead to potential for real change
of it taking place in reality, if you don't know who you were, where you've
been, how on God's green Earth can you expect to know who..., where you are
and what's going on, necessary to start thinking about changing anything,
even yourself, as well as directing who you will be and where you will
be going, etc.?  Swine slaughtering lower-middle-class to poor men en masse,
mostly of color, instead of just doing the usual liquidation of their ases
and assets, are just serial murderers masquerading as cops, and what goes
around comes around, no?  If you're not taking bullets you're making them.  
Also, people are fed up with felonious RumputiN and his rootin' tootin'
organized crime family spree from the Blackhouse, which should be prosecuted
using the RICO Statute instead of just being elaborately covered up by Mueller
for he's not using it and he's handing out immunities like soldiers candy to
Iraqi kids, duh.  I would add some salient pointless points, beyond the 'empty
boat' of Zen, and 'useless tree' of the Tao, we can understand the burden
placed on our shoulders by our ancestry not exercising their responsibilities
as they should have, and thereby it's Siamese twin sisters, their freedoms,
Withered like unused muscles as well, as a panultimate challenge, saving
humanity, literally. Also, understanding Jung's "80 % of all actions, thoughts,
feelings we have, that we acknowledge, or don't, perceive or don't, are
compensatory towards our pasts", necessitates an integral understanding of
Satre's existentialism' meaning of angst, as experience integral to life, not
opposed to it, but, rather, central to it, and a nexus of it.  This is more
than an embracing of gestalt's, Perls', moment, now. Moving away from sophist
perspective, we also experience the meaning of life is struggle, which comes
through all our meaningful work, succinctly. Further, what is life beyond that
foci is also, the where, when, who, how, and sometimes why too (but never Y2K)
of life; beyond our masks and ego fulfilling stories, schtick, lines, etc..
Do we struggle, not just as lifelong students, with the impossible, not just
the improbable.  Yet, it's actually more layered than that in a much larger
dimensional paradigm than 4 dimensions.  Yes, the effects of our causes in any
action usually have effects that undo our causes as we act them out, intend,
present them, etc..  Yet, those more superficial, linear, first conclusion
layers are not less effective, per se, as the complexity of Karma, Dharma are
beyond our normal comprehension. What is the root of thought, feeling, the root
of feeling, being, the root of being, the extent to which we struggle with what
it is, no?  For, as the following twig of poetree gleans: Soul//
As my breath
is the one, prana,/
And the life's pulse, pala,/
Reaching angelic source, sura,/

So is this mind, manas, a
/  Flowering unfoldment,
/ Unendingly touching
/ The eye
that would it see,/  
Unbeckoning unto thee./
As well, this Bodhi, a temple,/

Of the four and fifth, nur,/  
So entered by atma, a ray of thy sun,/  
Thus being
winged, and
/  As such with wind,/
Flying only in dharma's dance,/
Is returning
to, Brahma, you./  For, there yet, by thy grace, go I./  
We are not who we think
we are, we are, rather, the extent to which we struggle to evolve to be some-
things, spirit, soul, Bodhi, etc., on the path of study that could and should
be one, you, me, forever asked and never answered.  Yet, even if we lived as
prayer, our light only adding to the well of light, our every step in grace,
leaving no footprints that followed none, echoing in all ways, always,
sometimes, like pulling teeth, "...we(e),...", must stalk our words from our
insides 'til we wrangle them, like cats, to the tip of our tongues, no?  For,
"Words weren't meant for cowards..." and we must "be brave...", Happy Rhodes.
We can't allow ourselves the luxury of taking our supposedly 'golden silence'
all the way to the bank, as your average bear does.  These are the end times,
we successfully struggle, to abolish global defacto-slavery by the non-renew-
able energies' corporate structure's machine and it's convolution, against
the global oligarchy's premeditated mass-****** of 7.5 billion people, or
humanity's extinct.  Gandhi, "(supposed) science is the root of all opression"
and, "...we(e),..." must be the change we want in the world".  Is not life
relation, are we not responsible for one another, are not all threads in
the fabric of life needed, as is the evoliutionary ones' mendings, for we
can't allow it to be torn asunder?  If not here, then where, if not now, when,
not you, who? Viva la evolucion.  Indivisible, illimitable you, GOTV.

How do I love thee?  In a way that's bad,
by which I mean so bad it's almost good.
I need you, and you know it drives me mad.
I want you more than any other could.
And we could write romances, you and me.
I want to hear your Hitchcock movie schtick.
I want your everything.  I hope it's free.
I want you in my window, and you're sick.
And yet you know my raving is a sign
I'd rather we were paramours than friends.
You're outlawed from the moment that you're mine
Until the day our bad romancing ends;
I'll love you in a leather-studded bra.
Rah gaga gaga roma ooh la la.

all and all
we prat fall on small carpets -
half-lit by sunshine
and half - benighted
we bruise easily,
and as often
as a Jack O"lantern's
Smile
we pitch dark for a new Sit-Com
but never let them
see us let them fret
and never let them
see us
yet.

Yet.

you know that feelings,
it's neither in your head
or your heart...

you know that feeling,
custard in the head,
and a wooden floor with
a blanket in your heart...

and there's
free's, alright now
ringing in your head
attempting to think...

how did that song
never make it to o. 1,
turned down by
mango jerry's
song, in the summertime..

what?!
the song by free
has only two chord...
no riff...
    no iron man by
black sabbath...

   you're ******* me,
right?
    two chords....
****... what's the tab...
ah...
right...
from the days when
i actually gave a ****
about playing guitar...

and owned a classic acoustic,
an electric cheap Fender
and an amp...

how does this one go?

e
   at the bottom,
E at the top...

D's the first string...

e
blank
blank
D
blank
E

FGH!

   that'my first rattlesnake
draw a guess...

now let's scout the internet...

****...

obviously i was wrong...
i wrote the best essay about
Caribbean music
in music class,
beat the black boys at it...
but sure as ****
i didn't learn how to
play the piano...

E
A
D
G
B
e

but the most fun was always
the slick solo...

the rest?
well...
           beginners' club

E     1
A                         2
D             3
G
B
e

that's black sabbath,
by black sabbath...

      no, you're looking down...
e is the little string at the bottom,
E is the thick string at the top...

timing... left to right...

single pluck of the string...

but now the two chords
         for free's song
alright now...

E     5
A    7         5              
D    7         7          
G               7
B
e

you'll figure out the count...
but that's the basic schematic...
i'm too busy drinking,
i'm not into portraying the:
up and down, up once, down once,
up once again, three times down
on the EAD / ADG workload...

oh god...
then the songs...
Mr. Big,
  and Fire & Water...

mind you...
Cream's intro...
hovering around
  how does it go... ?
i forgot the syllables on in...
tud tud tud tu tu too too
tut tut too...
            
sunshine of your love!
that's high up on the neck,
smacked in bewtween
E 12
   and D 15...
    subsequently A 12
       and G 15...
and then a variant of...
where does 17 go for the lick
Beelzebub?
         me neither...
i forgot...
last time i played guitar
was
around my grandparent's
house,
in late April over Easter...

    rusty fingers and all...
that blues standard...
hell, i can remember that verse...

i can see it in my eyes,
i can hear it in my head...
but i can't remember it in writing...

i wasn't ever great...
but i liked to fiddle...

ha ha, mind you...
i managed to conjure up
Grieg's
    in the hall of the mountain king...
and...
   and an almost
     ancient Ukrainian folk
song...
       on the theme by
Krzesimir Dębski -
               hey falcons!

seeing the land,
the birch trees,
the caattail riddled open plain swamps...
the pines...
    the wailing willows...
the mistletoe...
   the rowan tree...
  the chirping sparrows of
Warsaw's western bus station...
        
a bouquet of roses
or Dutch tulips
might look more appealing...
but the perfumes
of the already stated alternative!

oh how i miss home,
a home,
   i never actually lived in...
    and can never will ever
live in...
oh home, home,
such a bogus superstition
of my fatigued imaginings.

p.s.
****...
     guitar, hence the / trailing off...
you know that feeling
when you've eaten
BBQ all the way through the summer,
meat, meat, meat meat meat...
and you've forgotten
the taste of eastern European
dunplings?
   pierogi:
   i.e. etymologically speaking:
cockerel horns?
and you make a case for
a gluttony around 8?

and...
     the feeling is more concentrated
around your stomach
and your ***, rather than your
head and heart?

when you need to take a walk
for about 30 minutes,
brisk,
and drink 3 bottles of cider
at 8.2% alcohol content...
to ease the digestion?
while you're at it...
that feeling...

    like you're a pregnant woman...
expecting a baby...
but instead:
a meister-schtick
aversion to a hamburger?

no?
        never left bloated so much?
good on you...
i hope you never have to feel like
that,
on a cool autumnal night.

after acquiring the english language,
and synthesising it for twenty years...
ugh... breakfast that is but a cup of water
and immediately feeling bloated...
or just imagining that you can live
on food and alcohol... like a diesel engine....
comes to just as much
     trying to catch butterflies akin to
nabokov, or thoughts...
      and are either, so trully necessary?
well... unless you take to calling it
the only relative opposite of picking up
a gun and shooting someone for no reason
other than a per se reason, which
subsequently has to be reasoned with -
akin to this...
  or, dare i say, picking up a philosophy book
and seeing how there is clearly
a child in there, esp. in english -
how each philosophy book seems to be
avoiding the pronoun i -
such is the nature of these books,
    a lot of hide & seek happening -
with the basic formula of: being yourself,
to avoid, your self.
then again as this french girlfriend told
me when she was staying in edinburgh
for a year to complete her erasmus program
from the university of grenòble
and she was doing this psychology experiment
and she needed native speakers...
  and i was given the stick for trying to
fake her science by suggesting that i'd do it...
yeah...
           well i really did hook up with her when
an american was about to court her,
and that's the only time i played the huinter-gatherer
role, or was motivated to do so,
when we went bar crawling and i pulled her
from the crowd and we stayed behind while
the group moved to another pub...
that was the only time i felt a need to do the "chase",
later this thing called the categorical imperative
came along, and i subsequently lost the impetus
to compete...
being a gladiator could have been greater,
what with the hardships of life...
but you can watch these gladiators fall...
quiet easily, buying groceries in a supermarket,
or opening a fridge door...
it's this return to the mundane, the household
environment can really beat a man,
if his life is lived to sample the ancient
field of danger...
   so when i did get the schtick of her empiricism
i decided: well... i'm no native....
and aren't we all so puritan about science
when some of it can't be falsified,
which it can:
        never too fond of accents myself...
native or alien...
               some people have a fetish for
feet or a french accent...
                        but that ***** essex slur...
or however you'd like to put it,
  it's not even cockney, but you get to hear
something quasi-cockney around these parts
more often, given that a lot of londoners
are moving away to these parts...
cockney meets essex county...
or meats it... yep: beats it silly with squalor
and at the same time: sophistication of living
in cement graveyards of an international city...
then again, you walk into a forest at night
during the summer, wearing only a t-shirt...
and it's freezing!
   you can actually hear Gaia breathing...
and then out of the woods and onto the cement...
that rush of feeling a complete change
of temperature... well... that's something.
          oh it wasn't me, i didn't dump that
french bird, she dumped me,
       as an experienced woman in her early
twenties would, to a ****** (who lost it with her),
18 year old.
    memories and all, what a grand cinema,
sipping absinthe on the streets of athens,
the athenian strip-club...
                sitting on a stool looking at a stripper
while holding two women in my arms
and kissing that sweet, sweet tender *****...
what happened after?
   drank all my money away,
                was escorted by a bouncer to a cash
machine... ****** myself
           and scuttled away back to the hostel....
and then took the bus from athens to katowice...
macedonia? beautiful, very hilly...
       serbia though... a plataeu of snow...
and i admit, belgrade from the distance
looked stunnig... esp. because of the snow.
oh right, i was supposed to insert a          )
having begun it with a     (      of an original prompt...
english really does have this natural
basis to invoke a self-conscious pronoun base of i,
it's like there's this need for a double-certainty
of the speaker stating that: it really is that person
speaking... or even thinking...
     polish        as a language? it rarely uses
the pronoun ja, i.e. i,
                          it's just certain -
english has to overtly use the pronoun -
      and it would be certainly pointless to ditto it
out... like some careless selfish womanisers
by the name of sartre...
                   that's the one thing i don't understand
about sartre, how it could ever be, something
about "ego"... more like Igor and doctor frankenstein...
i find that expression, yes, that alone
   " e g o " to be akin to pontius pilate washing his hands:
for whather transgression: i can't be to blame...
and then comes that ****** mantra
of mea culpa... and it just goes on and on...
to be frank, the whole point of mea culpa
is to transcend any invocation of self-pity...
      it's probably the foremost notion of transcendentalism,
well given that self-pity exists in people,
and some people would rather take blame;
indeed, it is my fault that i once had a heart
to feel intimate with someone, or even entertain
the idea of a fwend...
                            if anyone asks, i'll just be
a hermit, in my little cave.

how over pretentious of me...
islamophobia and russophobia...
odd bedfellows...

Mатвей Дракон: profile name...
but it's in russian and no one is willing
to stretch a darkening of humour...
to the extent of monty python...
because there's no canned laughter...

and there will never be...
not since i realised...
those four bottles of cider get me
more drunk than half a liter of
ms. amber... because the drinking
is measured and can reveal itself
in the process - rather than wait,
concentrated... and only expand
into more hours of sleep than
i could ever wish for...

but at least the russians speak of
russophobia as a reality -
the evil genius mantra...
which they are...
but there's no sense of: via irrational
arguments we will counter this
irrational fear...

so... the scuttling spiders announce!
and we will have ourselves
an orchestra!

even i thought this was too much,
too pretentious...
it's not a study... it's teasing...

a study in greek, hebrew, cyrillic and possibly sanskrit... because i'm not a monolingual hyper-inflation that will solve a crossword puzzle... when めば (eye-spot) is already... available? In a name there's a name in oh so many other languages... should i rely on relapsing into "gender-neutral" pronouns i'll cite... the noun-status extensions of letters, akin to a' into alpha... o' into omega... etc.

めば (eye-spot): that much is true...
sudoku...
i have made the following circumstance
plain...
there is no chance of me rising above
this already apparent crab-bucket intellectualism...
perhaps...
burden of rhyme...
it's only a "poem" if it rhymes...
rhyme is somehow identifiable with poo'etics...
ask an anne sexton... or perhaps:
no, don't bother...

she to burdens herself with rhymes -
and maybe she doesn't...
but this endless expectation to rhymes...
yes: plural was indicative of
the irony...
sometimes it's not even available...
to look back at this tool we have been given,
perhaps perfected better -
or not - since most of the time i find
myself: without an inch of belief
in catching some oratory / rhetorical
tsunami to... be the crow that croaks
the most and the loudest in this wake...

at least the russians acknowledge russophobia...
oh they're pay privy diligence to it...
they know they're the evil geniuses of this world...
they allow this irrational fear to sink in...
and then they rationalise it...

too bad for islamophobia...
it's not an irrational fear to begin with...
it's... more or less... a rational fear...
i think russophobia is an irrational fear...
after all: Kiev was founded by Vikings...
and apart from crown russia that's still
pretty much in Europe...
the asiatic branch of russia is too far away
to matter for either st. petersburg
of paris...

it's not convincing to be "reassured" while
the "enemy" persists to look bewildered
as if: no event is ever to happen
in the world - or also include him...
muslims? oh no... oh no at almost every turn
it seems...
sacred cows walk the streets of new delhi
while the people starve...

no dire warning: tiresome from the perspective
of a wormhole -
the count and the next count
the measures and what's to be left
dwindling... which is never a spectacle worth
reserving...
like putting on a vinyl and watching
the vinyl on a gramaphone...
or lighting a candle with a sulphur-sparked
match and sitting and "waiting"
watching while the candle burns...
and feeds a schtick of "anorexia"
absorbs all the shadows and stands at
midnight noon: with no wax to burn...

that feeling of having just ****** off
and then... prostate cancer pains
of having to make it absolutely necessary
to take a ****... to clean the ducts...
i still don't know why this "event"
is so precious for the quasi-cenobites...
it's no big deal...
just another genocide done into
the tissue later flushed...
perhaps if i were... shooting eggs
without the yoke it would somehow
matter...
perhaps i am...

but there's no zeitgeist to be had
concerning something that i make synonym
with wiping my *** asking
for nutella... and a skippy crunchy...
because: that's going to be the decade
defining EVENT!

funny... you ******* for no real reason...
nothing procreative...
gym-bro bollocking and that's not even
as much fun as going to a turkish barber
for a shave...
by then: everything concerning your
being - that is not going to be a moral
tool to raise children...
limbo in ego or the ego in limbo -
and that's never self or i...
but after an *******...
the most desperate need to take a ****...
to flush and make the ducts pristine... wiped
with ***** disinfectant...

about as odd as the bass guitar rising above
the drums - the oddity bass "rhyme"
and please... no guitar solos...
no metallica death to the bass
all that i hear is solo and rhythm guitar
and the drums...
they never got over the death of cliff burton...
or: how the rock band killed
the jazz band... focused on the rhythm guitar
and drums... but no trumpets just the vocals...
but still... no better use for bass?

it's always either: all that's music and...
it was always going to be not enough ***...
enough *** or just ***...
i went down the route of playing the brothel
roulette to catch up with the girls...
who i expect will later play bingo...
and we will probably try to age...
and be all romance...
and the man idiotic will still preserve
himself as unable to lie...
and she will... m'eh ah and all that litany
of sighs find the purse and the penguin
dancing the foxtrot from out
of the antarctica of his own ***...

russophobia: yes, an irrational fear -
even the evil geniuses of moscow acknowledge
this burden...
islamophobia... and... what?
milk and honey and yeast
and comatose black gold of ms. saudi of
the dinosaur arabia plucked...
a leaf... a laurel... from the pages of history
of: who's the good dog willing
to aport on call of command?!
into iraq and iran?

i can't hear a counter...
when it comes to it being anything rationalised
equal to the russian monologue...
claustrophobia and... it's irrational to me...
esp. when long winding...
when the cube talked to a field about...
abstract thinking -
at least claustrophobia is a metaphor
for abstract thinking - the lesser -

islamophobia is a ***** word...
esp. the -phobia suffix...
it's a perfectly rational fear...
given the mouse-and-leans have the gears
the fuel and the poker and backgammon "rules"...
as someone who might appreciate
a well sung adhan more than
an operatic aria...
well...
what's not to love?

at least for some it's known:
a drowning man will attempt to grip
a razor's edge without hope that it might be
an edge of a floating raft...
and they will always purse their mouth...
and waggle their tongue for
the pennies like sand shrapnel from
the payers for the goods...
an emirat sheikh and... the bore of the world...
if only the lottery of oil...
somehow... landed... in mongolia...

this world is a tiresome place...
given that arabs have the money...
and the chinese have: g.i. joe factories...
it's such a drab place...
such a clone furnace of the numbers
of mandarins...
and oh that niqab cinema...
even if you sell me something swedish
in black & white drab...
or some proto-turkic propaganda movie
to convert the "al-qaq" kurds (qa-eee-d'ah?)

welcome to europe... ghetto west of berlin...
back east there are needles...
walking about on the mountains
of camel humps...
notably in west warsaw coach station...
but the ukranians are always rather:
rowing the boat and the boat is always
heading into the furnace...

crab-bucket intellectualism...
these words are words that should be printed
and left on the northern line tube carriages...
like some free journalism paper wipe-my-***-with-i-wish,
why of course!
the highest i.q. renovations bottom-up to the top
always spreschen rhapsodies in wrap...
wrapping akin to:
i imagine the rappers chasing those...
john moschitta jr. is not a wrapper... rapper...
he's the add guy... and no rap on radio
adverts... when the T&S clauses are stressed...
and the muzak is dead and the lift is... falling...
like a ice-pick on the one dancing foot
of a burning burning with epitome given
the name... malchik trotting trotsky...

otherwise: blah - and endeavours into the bland...
some call it a guillotine...
i call it manglonia in england -
tiresome safe -
i almost pray to feel dangerous having
to acquire a straitjacket -
straitjacket bungee jump into conversation
like a rabid hive of the persona non grata:
of the commentary left-overs a priori
to the: walking onto the stage -
and talking with a gag in the mouth...
to speak a language for moths.

"Faith can move Mountains."
I've read in some book.
Now mind over Melon
can be done with a look.
Hooked up by electrodes,
a test subject's brain
exploded a melon
and fried some plantains.
The Watermelon trick
sure excited the crowd.
The comedian, Gallagher,
truly was wowed
He's been in the hospital,
truly heartsick.
Physically unable
to keep doing his Schtick .
Soon, with his brain,
He'll resume his pursuit,
popping jokes while exploding
some innocent fruit.

this perpetual pattern. a thousand spreadsheets of the thing, draped unceremoniously about the furnishings of my mind. digits and symbols tapped into a machine to keep every schtick continually whirring. rare concessions of dumbfounded dazzle, no time or place for wonder. untidy notes, impure thoughts, callings from the mud--the whole deal, and yet i still hold my fancies. with careful introductions i can shut the monster down. it has dreams of its own, collected in dust, and when the time comes to sit out defeat they unfold in my lap like grotesque paper flowers

it became clear as day... i knew this was coming,
the day when i brushed aside all the science,
the dogma, and said nothing of a big bang
fancy, but to keep me inside it rather than,
outside of it: whatever it was that imploded...
if the **** thing didn't implode why all this
gesture two describe it as an explosion, and give way
to phenomena? they're not imploding into
singled out individuals...
   ah, **** this boring scientific crap,
the rubber-band of me learning chemistry at university
had to snap at some point... it had to...
i also decided that the term big bang is really
ugly... given humanity and the care for aesthetic,
whether inner or outer, the big bang has no
impetus to succumb to it if your mind is
even remotely interested in science,
     i'd call it the imploded onomatopoeia...
i can't write a cat's meow or a dog's bark or a crows
croak to perfection, words have
no ~ markings attached to them,
which shows you how shallow existentialism
is with its lack of symbols, only the ditto,
and that's never really explained, for what i've
read it's a stylistic inclusion akin to italics...
no existentialist expresses whether a dittoed word
is ambiguity, or whether it's a loan word,
like a Pole might loan the word weekened
and speak the foreign word in his native tongue:
as if we invented it...
  Poles do that, a lot... i mean: it's easier to loan
foreign words than create your own...
   i call this an T. Edison stagnation...
the moment you start loaning words,
is the moment you're left with about two famous
Poles in the history of mankind,
and even that's disputed, since the Germans
want Copernicus, and the French want Chopin...
you basically become unimaginative, not firm,
loose, bubbly, lard...
    that sort of language encoding can belong
among merchants, but look how the former
mechant of Mecca has become strict,
where's the lingua franco?
             i know it's english, dummy,
  but i mean: why use so many loan words in your
own ethnic tongue, so blatantly,
    try to tell an englishman to use
    the german word zeitgeist with as much
of a populist zeal as a Pole who incorporated
the english word weekend, it's not going to happen...
thankfully the english know they're of germanic
descent for the most part,
    and partly norse, and celt... and roman...
****! what a brothel, you get all kinds here,
anglo-slavs and afro-saxons to boot these days...
magic... the ******* 60s were true, after all.
  but it's the puritanism in me regarding language,
well, given that Poles have become almost
akin to Jews in Europe, given the history...
oh look, the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth,
ah crap, look, it's gone, no, wait, it's up and running
once again... no wait... they joined the E.U.
when papa essex and mama normandy said:
we're out! dumb chocolatiers, it was bound to
be too sweet, too true... too pointless to continue...
faking what the Mayflower people did "across the pond".
and it's almost fun learning how
the central european commonwealth was based
on the fact that: only a foreign ruler can claim
a crown over the geography that once spanned
from the baltic to the black sea...
yeah, and i am ethnically bound to talk about it
without having to: i don't even know the polish
anthem, the english one? it's the easiest
in the world, done in under a minute...
     god save our gracious king,
something something... something something...
  when i became naturalised as a "citizen" i think
i sang it... no, wait... i didn't...
    just like i didn't accept the catholic bureucracy...
i should have a tetranoun / "grammaton" /
tetrakilogram name in the paperwork,
what, catholic and not baptised, and not chosing
another name for yourself at the ceremony
involving the purple bishop?
   well, that's the first joke i spotted with what i later
realised as the Hebrew divinity, and how
i wouldn't desecrate the principle...
       but it's not even about that!
     it could well be about the 2015 film
fathers and daughters, and how they say
novels take years to write, edit, i say: vulgarity
is necessary, as are conjunctions,
     and as is phlegm...
                               but it's not even about that,
the sunday times magazines...
the style magazine on purpose, the dating columns
are going off-print! i can't believe it!
         what am i going to be reading from that magazine
on a sunday?
   i did once say (keeping up with the goldfish,
scatter brain, short-memory span, therefore telegram
poetry, many punctuation marks,
disorientating, punctual, but disorientating,
a *******-base on purpose,
i don't think many people will like it; good):
it would be nice to see a journalistic sabbath,
yes, a media sabbath, after all Monday newspapers
are so thin! anorexic news... that's Monday,
people have been lazing too much on sunday,
actually reading every single page that a monday
newspaper, just makes no sense!

and yes, the very point of enforced interludes
is that you might find yourself in the scottish
highlands looking at a waterfall, for example
the above is an uninterrupted waterfall,
and then gaze into the void of a sea not too far away...
and looking at that sea, you can see the most
perfect interruption...
    the romance died when science explained
the mystery of hearing the sea in a seashell deep inland...
there should be taboo subjects, taboo topics that
are better explained by love,
not this omnipotent dissection method,
just saying...
   how philosophers will call it abstract
and a poet will call it metaphor...
   given that both are not equipped to the application
of any sort of reality, or dare i say a schism from
it, akin to calling the two approaches
a realism, or some quasi or pseudo sort.
i can call democracy for all its wants to be the most
perfect consolidation of man under the rule
of man, but then a tornado comes or a tsunami
and all of man's efforts to rule himself crumble
into disaster... and how rare to see it when
discussed in philosophical theory,
    democracy as an abstract, is also a metaphor,
ob-, prefix denoting away from:
and then the suffix -tract... well, i was thinking of
a road... the less trodden track...
        apparently it means an area...
                democracy as nothing but a cancerous growth,
it spreads to almost every cavity where people
are content with an alternative political establishment,
for they like the basis for the ***** that
made it to the egg and beat all the other ***** that
would otherwise make it into a tissue or into a ******...
thankfully metaphor, i.e.: something not literally
applicable has the potent of not being abstract,
abstract, i.e.: working from the heights of ideal
to the depths of an idea, that has to compete with
the many narratives that later allow the idea to resurface
as a lightbulb...
                    these two cruxes are very much akin,
philosophy says abstract! poetry says: metaphor.
keeping in mind, i took to poetry like a mozart to a piano,
i never actually intended to say these things,
i merely envisioned conducting a philharmonic orchestra
for deaf people...  oh sure, this wasn't supposed
to be a one-man show, a monologue,
i never intended to say these things...
i wrote these poems in mind of conducting an orchestra,
which is a useful method of creating an implosion,
which goes back to, that dread, the bing bang...
    ever hear a ******* bang in vacuum?
     i wrote these "poems" so that someone who sounds
like a violin might play the violin parts,
someone that sounds like a clarinet might play
the clarinet parts... and if sound has a colour,
it would be a ****** colour when encoded for the eyes to see,
akin to something being monochromatic,
therefore this mono-nausea...
  i write the same encoded sounds for someone
playing either violin, piano, clarinet or harp...
  let's also add in sax...
           but that couldn't make it onto the orchestral palette...
what a bollocking, either 4 beers and
the expected weak bladder or constipation...
it was never to be a soloist performance,
which is why it imploded,
      why or precisely how i was not writing this
for myself, for myself to speak these words...
  tad too empathetic concerning what's universally
human, i.e. a condition of some sort?
which is how i react when one of my favourite
columns from the journalistic columns gets the schtick...
and is out-grown...
               out-dated, who would have thought that
a dating column could allow two lonely hearts so much
space to later pull them apart...
     neither cosmo nor dolly have made it
     to a love brick, that sits firm at the base of the pyramid...
which is sad how the dating scene will go on,
and they will go on, dating...
monday shuffle, tuesday shuffle, wednesday shuffle
(catch the pop ref. point to a song, we all boogie
down with the groovy kids once in a while,
basically a music video that was actually a advert
for some sort of liquid, root beer? ginger beer?
i know, i know: i scratch your back, you scratch mine).

i might call this: what happens with interludes,
or quiet simply: interludes.

i was never into writing something akin to an Ikea
manual of putting up a cupboard,
Ikea has probably the best library for self-help,
a, b, c, d, e... a few screws, a few wooden bits,
and something resembling corkscrew...
the only self-help there is, i.e. put a cupboard together,
by yourself. is there any other self-help manual
that can beat the Ikea manuals? i don't think so.

and how happy can a man be, having lost
the ability to drink perfumes (i.e. whiskey) and turn to
miss стандарт, with such jovial missing or
never had expectations?
   i guess, quiet easily, it's there, a bottle,
with a little story on the label,
   once upon a time (in 1894 to be exact),
  dmitry mendeleev received a decree (do it
or i **** you, harasho?) from the tsar...
to create the imperial standard (i.e. triple filter,
akin to the imperial standard of measuring
in inches rather than in millimetres,
the French, who apparently took forever to create
the concept of 0 from O... eat a doughnut,
much easier)...
   and i never thought i'd say that ***** is more
appealing to my natural ingestion of
Dionysus' blood...
     the more i think of it, i do think that writing
can become akin to painting,
it just doesn't have to be rigid, scientific,
order-prone... it can reach the levels of chaos as
easily as it can become dull and a shopping list...
   many people can't see writing as painting
in the same way that language has many more
function of applicable needs in other profession...
read a poem to a surgeon during an operation,
he needs language as rigid as a mountain
that said: no avalanches are bound to me!
     the reason why novels take years to complete
is the over-rule of science in the humanities,
i don't understand why poetry has to be bred for a
scientific pragmatism, that it apparently does work,
akin to soap, or bleach...
          science can poke it's crazy head in every direction
it wants, usually the interchange of words:
                 bang ******* hole (b.b.b.b.) /
   howlin' wolf's backdoor man / **** -
but science has become a dog, barking up the wrong tree...
the money's are down... houston, we have a [problem!
they're down... they're walking upright,
they lost the joys of having a tail and swinging from
tree to tree, and if an abstract parasite akin to cancer
doesn't **** them... your argument will surely be the one
thing that will... eventually.
    
and i did mention runes, didn't i?
   well... if writing can be anything like painting,
it can only ingest ******* as foundation,
  no shapes, no cubism, no definite "things"
(for lack of a better name)...
        just spontaneity... and hazard, and chaos...
just like life evidently seems to be bound to
reveal itself as guarding against nothing...
well... i appreciate the runes...
not in an ****-Satanic cult sort of status,
i just appreciate them because the Slavs didn't leave
any original phonetic code...
     which is why Poland is still so ****** catholic,
minus the Pope? add the proper post-script to communism?
it might have been the next Russia with its oligrachs,
minus the gas pipes and all those resources
people boast about, but who weren't originally
bound to inherit, like Arabs and oil...
   you need practical nations using the resource,
western nations, overly-bureucratic nations that
make a man "do a job" licking envelopes and shooting
ink into fountain pens...
         just saying...
hard to be lazy, hard to be mystic, harder still being
a monk... wait and see how these peeps talk when
they retire... it's hard being lazy, "lazy"...
        now i see heidegger's concept of dasein
as the real problem of happening, how things necessarily
and subsequently, unnecessarily happen...
then i look the alien remnants of nomadic tribes of
the Amazon and realise: they're still here,
but nothing's happened.
or that's how i take a break from that german's ponderings,
and loosen into some sort of stroll...
       just about the right time,
when poetry stops talking about sounds,
and takes to complicating modern painting,
akin to working on complicating a square,
  the most famous to be worth complicating (rather
than contemplating) would be piet Mondrian...
   if you ever find the spare time:
i'll be in the space that tries to revive the runes
under no ******* ᛋᛋ...
to be honest, i'd like to refine several runes...
given that the non-diacritical latin is largely lost to
the virtual world...
what runes would i refine?
   ᚲ (k / c) at least make it larger, like <,
ᛃ (j), i'd probably just call is skew, i.e. /,
ᛝ would remain and ᛜ would be lost
to denote the grapheme ŋ (i.e. njae) -
and that's because i'm either itchy, or stitching up
a carpenter's worth of lack of cruve,
   like the arabic alphabet is curved twice-over
and the woman are clad in shadow and ninja and niqab...
just like runes once were, hiding curves,
or at least the men overly defensive of their woman...
once the latin curves were introduced...
well: there came the mini-skirt, and the mini-couper car.

who needs a big bang origin, when you can have all
of this? if i kept that much dynamite in my head
i'd be seen wearing hawaiian shirts short-sleaves
and drooling over porridge at breakfast...
        and my... when was it such a sin to drink
***** and listen to the blues?

Well you twinged my nerves
as you may be swell
but your words sure taste
like the floors of hell
So how are you ?

You make me sick
with your chameleon schtick
You come on hard
and you leave too quick
So fine you say ?

You're a dull moon hanging
over a fetid swamp
You will o'wisp
as you begin to taunt
So good to here .

I is the first word
from your mouth
Aye I say ever
tis thee out
So kind of you .

Green grounds
out the sills
as you have to say
What's mine is will
No other way .


Here's the bag
of bones you save
the flesh ripped off
the barrel's been staved
So bye bye you .

There's a moment
I take to pause
to pass some more
of  Murphy's laws
So I'll not be seeing you .

I'll not , I'll not , I'll not
be seeing you
Goodbye , Goodbye
to all and you
to all and you
ALL OF YOU !

Yes.
And we all know how to
Make poetry pay.
We all know what it is
That makes Sammy run,
Run Sammy Run.
But I take it to its
Absurd conclusion:
Ads right in the middle of
The ******* poem!
“That was,”
If I do say so myself,
“A stroke of pecuniary brilliance."
Pecuniary adjective pe·cu·ni·ary \pi-ˈkyü-nē-ˌer-ē\
: Relating to or in the form of money
Full Definition of PECUNIARY
1:  consisting of or measured in money 2: of or relating to money
— pe·cu·ni·ar·i·ly   -ˌkyü-nē-ˈer-ə-lē\ adverb http://www.thesaurus.com
Would not this be an excellent conceit?
Villainy of a close & potent kind?
Put the cart before the horse
(So to speak):
POETS AS SWEAT EQUITY.
That’s right!
Make us pay for our sins,
Financing our sins.
(So to speak).
What a concept!
Why not run the Merriam-Webster logo here . . .
Would this not be the appropriate time?
(logo)
Advertising right smack
Dab in the middle of
The ******* poem!

My third world soul
Having a difficult time
Navigating this Toddlin' Town
Allow me to show you around, town.

And lest we forget:
Our first poets were religious crazies,
With diction gilding Version, King James.
"My Schtick,"
As Mel Brooks might say.
Mel's History of the World
(Part 2, i.e.),
Retells the Essence of Story Telling,
The Misnah Pentateuch,
Told again with the usual **** genius.
Scene:  Moses stumbles on Sinai,
One of three burdensome
Stone tablets is dropped,
Shatters on a rock.
What could possibly have been proscribed
In those 5 lost commandments?
What freaky human pleasure,
Could possibly have been lost to humanity?
It is pointless to speculate.

'Tis better to think about this,
Dear Poetry Publisher Query *****:
Ads right in the middle of the ******* poem.

title: at <H. 20>
body:
troop movement
w.
ammo shortage:
abandon
   <H. 20> position.   502 bad gateway bypasses have become more fun than looking for google-whacks

i once tried to be this dad-rock sort of guy:
a massive fan of the stuff from the 1960s and the 1970s...
but... the more i explore the 1980s...
i'm finding out that... in all honesty?
sure... the 1990s grunge scene etc.:
not to mention TOOL... Fugazi... etc.
   but... hmm... well... there's a war on...
no one knows how far its going to go: or how
it might escalate...
          i'm not going to take sides: or write with
moral overtones regarding what is good
and what is bad...
i've heard the argument that moral judgements
are not right: to mediate this conflict as
a third party... or just as a person...
moral grandstanding: Ukrainian flags on profiles...
pouring Russian ***** into the drain...
just drink whiskey...
                          this stems from the Pariah Principle...
i'm just guessing to giggle a little:
the doping scandals finally got to ol' Vlad...
because it was funny when Mo Farrah pulled out
at some point... as did Bradley Wiggins...
started making income from adverts...
           yeah yeah: no, doping of athletes is not
systemic... all over the world...
   i guess some countries just have better doping
schemes...
   and while Russian was kicked out from
the mighty club of the G7 that was for a while G8...
i guess no one likes being left out...
no mention of China expanding the club into
a G9 or India for that matter... G10...
            plus... if the whole world spins the narrative
that you're evil... Russian subversion of American
politics... you're going to one day wake up and be
like: o.k. - fine... i'll be evil...
             aren't people liable if they slander someone
for no good reason / proof? can't someone be
sued for slander? i always thought the Russians
to be evil geniuses... but that softens the blow:
they're smart - in a malicious way because:
hell... what's there to do in a Russian winter...
you can only **** so much and drink so much *****...
so you get into hacking... for fun...
        but it's not Ukrainian politics was ever pristine...
i remember the days of the Orange Revolution
when Poland was involved in Ukrainian politics
for a while... long ago i said to myself...
it would be useful is Ukraine was allowed to join
the E.U. - just after the "famous five" joined back
in 2004... obviously i have no proof that i said something
along those lines back then... i wasn't writing then...
blah... politics... as ***** as money...
   i rather think about... how i managed to get
a ******* to want to meet me outside of the brothel...
rent a hotel room for the night...
pay for dinner... get a free **** all night... talk...
improve her English... learn some Turkish in return...
and music... i rather think about music...
i was going some ironing in the afternoon...
and i realised... of all these old vinyl records
that i brought back from Poland from my grandparents'
house... the ones my parents collected...
i was stuck on Maanam's Nocny Patrol (1984)
for too long on repeat... let's see what else is there...
oh... the original New Order Low-Life vinyl (1985):
**** me... an object that is older than me by
a year... well i did already know that New Order
emerged from the collapse of Joy Division...
well... the suicide of Ian Curtis... the precursor of
Curt Cobain - post-punk... well what came of that...
i never liked punk... more into psychedelic rock...
prog rock... but like i said... 60s and 70s music...
it grew on me... then... i grew out of it...
the whole boomer schtick of: we had the best music
your music is ****... give me a break...
- and it's not like i could get into Joy Division either...
i tried... it would be much easier to get into
65days-of-static if i were going to be perfectly honest...
or boards of canada...
      i tried... but... you can't let a tragedy go to waste...
so with the emergence of New Order...
and never looked into them... blue monday... faith...
but never looked into entire albums...
gateway album... Low-Life...
   and then it hit me... this is really the proper alternative
to The Cure... the Smiths... Depeche Mode...
i must be having this post-punk phase...
               at one point youtube was spewing out
post-punk suggestions all the time for me...
as if in the good old days of youtube being the best
jukebox on the internet...
plus... on a vinyl that's 36 years old...
oh: with the older vinyl you can hear the imperfections...
"imperfections" or rather the crackling...
newer vinyl doesn't have that crackling...
now i have a few good hours in the bag of going through
the entire New Order discography...
again... this conflict... i'm not even following it...
i've built-up a media burnout after all the repeated
news about Covid... i followed it at the start...
until... people started clapping for the NHS...
i switched off... i' already switched off regarding
this conflict... i'll make that dreaded hippy statement:
make love, not war...
  well... i'm on it... perhaps if i could be a mediator...
i'm not going to use moral language...
i'll just show people what life can be life...
do some ironing... put on a decent vinyl from the 1980s
plan a *** marathon in a hotel room...
with a girl you have no qualms over the "body count"
as some guys look for frigid nun types...
ah... what a mandible beauty...
            elsewhere... yeah... people are fighting...
but people are always fighting elsewhere...
- and it's not like nothing is being done...
over 1 millions refugees fled to Poland...
      i went into a forest and found something symbolic...
a branch of wood in the shape of a Cossack sword,
the shashka...
             i think my extended family might have
been affected by the UPA genocides during the Second
World War... mind you: the Ukrainians cheered
when the Nazis invaded... mind you: such wounds
should run so deep in me... it's ridiculous...
i should, maybe, just maybe: have the English attitude
toward the Norman genocide of Anglo-Saxon nobility
after Hastings from a purely historical point of view...
but then again... i knew a woman: my great-grandmother
who had to give opiates to her new-born daughter
(my grandmother) so she wouldn't cry when
they were running and hiding on the front...
  or how my grandfather remembers his uncle lying dead
in the back garden after being shot by the Nazis...
or how he would run up to two SS-men in their infamous
Hugo Boss black and shout: herr! bite bon bon!
and they would give him sweets so sweet that
his hands would be stuck together... etc.
           there is a lineage... memory... it's almost like
one person having many hosts... you can't exactly cut it
off... but... how ridiculous western democracies look
now, for their former criticism of Poland not taking in
enough refugees... really?
just like Turkey didn't take in enough authentic
Syrian refugees? oh... the type of refugees that drove
the trucks of peace in Nice... or performed
the Bataclan attacks? the Cologne *** party?
no Ukrainians on rubber-inflatables crossing the Channel
from Calais? i get it... the wrong sort of hue...
well... i guess old grievances can rest for a while...
you must really try your hardest not to be called
racist... but then one day you'll wake up
   like a Russian... after being called evil, foreign affairs
meddler... Olympic cheat and be like...
**** it... i'll own that slander... i'll just act upon it...
hmm... Dinosaur Jr. - but that's more grunge
than post-punk... no no... post-punk is something
very beautiful... it gets mixed up with the term Indie...
like... the Smiths are probably considered Indie
rather than post-punk... but i think they're post-punk...
god... i hate punk... probably as much as rap...
- and it's sort of a crying shame...
Russian, back in 2007... was such a welcoming place...
obviously my then Russian girlfriend
timed trying to get impregnated without my knowledge...
how does it work with women?
the highest chance of getting pregnant is just after
a woman's period: i'm not a woman, i don't know...
she was supposed to be on the pill...
hey, unprotected ***... well... she was rich enough
to not need my money, just my genes...
but the people were so welcoming...
i'd put the Russians on par with the Scots...
oh hell: her father was a timber oligarch out
in Siberia... she had multiple flats scattered around
St. Petersburg and even Moscow...
i look at it as follows: being a ***** donor doesn't
really cut it... what, just reading a man's profile:
window-shopping for *****?
obviously she wanted the relationship
to get to know the character of the man...
rather than some objective rubric: education X,
employment Y... but character? in person?
in practice? well... that's Z(ed)...
               well... if i'm not going to the type to
shoot bullets from a machine gun...
i might as well be shooting something else
somewhere else...
                              is that the conclusion you come to
when she calls you... tearful... in a happy way
and says: 'i think i'm pregnant!' - i think therefore i doubt...
i don't think that applies to how women
use language...
years later when i visited her... hmm... toys scattered
all over the apartment... hush-hush atmosphere...
she invited a lot of people round...
i think she was still with her newly wedded
neuroscientist: would be dumped months later...
married some poor Scotch schmuck...
well... at least she's keeping a tally...
    she might get to no. 5 and finally be like:
                     well... that was a good enough party...
no ***, just watch t.v. with me...
   oh hell no... i was exposed to Marquis de Sade
"too early" in life to somehow ******* without
a proper hard-on...
              well... first shot with the Turkish girl...
second one might hit the mark...
who knows... but this one photograph she sent me...
there's this young pretty thing sitting
in the background... a nice looking bump...
hmm... the last time i was there....
and shot a load into a ******... must have been...
oh... 4 months? 5 months?
what happened to that ****** with the payload?
women are such subtle creatures...
i might just be living in La-La-Land...
             but your mind sometimes goes out to lunch
in a non-demented way...
   it's not like people are transparent with each
other... it's not like we don't have our secrets...
secret avenues that other people never hear about...
it's not like that doesn't happen...
maybe the less i know and the more i speculate...
the happier i am... whether it's true or not...
i like to think that women like for a full beard
a hairy chest and a hair stomach, a 6ft2 100kg posture
is something that's worth salvaging...
freely given, on a whim: because... eh...
   i'm not a fat 4ft9 stinking Mongol who left a lot
of people in Pakistan with a surname: Khan...
and he done that by ****...
                                 spectacular... life...
and as long as i'm in a working environment and
i treat the... less lucky guys with candour:
with a camaraderie... what could possibly go wrong?
obviously everything...
                     but if they don't know jack ****...
and i keep them at a mutual-respect length...
ah... no open flirting with female coworkers...
at work... i feel so fake at work sometimes...
   at least in the schoolyard there was open banter...
at work i have to force myself: all the time...
            i just want to be left alone... do the shift...
*******... go back into seclusion and scribble down
thoughts to remind myself: i would never say as much
with my mouth as i "say" with the use of my
itchy-finger-tips... it's staggering how rhetoricians find
talking so easy... what's the old suggestion?
they enjoy the sound of their voice?
must be... i drift... mmm hmm... 1980s post-punk...
feels good... now that New Order discography to sift through.

I hear…I will…I do not understand, if you are speaking through me won’t you please make your presence known. If not, kindly show me to the door. Jolly rancher, jolly Rodger…Every rose has it’s burden, a shifting stone takes in all it has coming. A stitch to throw in a ditch saves just three under a dozen. Come in and care. Come in and make yourself at home. Come in here and cough up a phlegm-ball. Rest your weary head on my tombstone.

There’s a reason for all the things I do. Do you want to know what it is? One thing, and ONLY one thing: Pepto-Bismol. **** gets things done. That’s my excuse, pardon me, sir, if you don’t get it, you won’t get it you won’t NEVER *** it down in yer soul where it needs to be.

Never so young as you were that day. What a show. What a show. Pretty maids all in a row, fit to a one with tight trusses emblazoned. BUTNER BUTNER BUTNER! Three cheers for Butner. One big long cheer with corresponding slutty ***** dancing routine thrown in for free. From your friends in Butner.

They ate that right up. Didn’t even have to spoon feed ‘em. They’z musta bin reeeel hungery. Sure thought mine was special.

And it was.

Take my pick, that’s the schtick. Maybe the doll in the unwashed dreadlocks? Maybe the gal with the go-hero pout. Maybe the one with the sad dropping eyelids? Maybe the ***** with the genital itch. Maybe the ***** with the venereal sore. Maybe the **** with the cellulite ****.

Or maybe the tiny, mousy mouse of a sprite, never had love look her in the eye, that stuff only makes a man wonder why. Hair shorn short and shut out the lights or you will never see that incredible aura and glow she dwells in like a bubble. She’s the one to choose. She’s the one, you can’t lose, you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain, how can I make it more plain? You’re gonna get wet if it rains and I haven’t got time for the pain, Strange Woman. MY woman.

Make some plans for a one night stand I’m a dope smokin’ man and I sure get around and my life revolves around Strange Strange Women. Strange customs. Strange habits. Strange ideas of just exactly how incredibly Strange they actually are. I’ve got mine, now you go get yours. We’re hookin’ up at the dance.

Dilly dance, dance of the week, American Bandstand dance and you didn’t like the words but it’s got a good beat so you give it an 85. You could dance to it.

Such was my hope. Twas to be my destiny, if luck stayed tucked in my pocket I was fittin’ to be gittin’ my share o’ what I got comin’…

…and I did.

"I'm not mad. Feel free to email me with responsible inquiries. No more of the gf / exgf schtick."

What could be more humiliating?

I'd break if I could.
Scream, cry, and kick.
Even if the branch is burning
From both sides
I can't stop; I won't.
I'll be a coward no more.

Ill stand up, like I should.
Say no more of this schtick,
My life is turning,
And I'll weather the tides,
But even if some things don't,
I'm ready to mend what you tore.

I'm never sure when to laugh.
To some it comes easy as breathing
But I need a graph,
A custard pie chart to show just where
To slap the schtick.
Like taking the ****.
Take the mike, centre stage,
Now give it back, make it stick.
Isn’t it free to share now it's been taken?
When was it ever owned? Ever mine?
Don't worry, it's fine.
It was your line anyway,
Yours to cross.
Find your mark and overstep it.
Near knuckles bleed.
Punch line, punch bag.
Life's funny like that.

What gives ten
Ask for nothing then
A gentleman entering a gambling den
Orders for the best drinks
Lights his cigarettes with a matchstick
Part of his down-to-earth routine
Not a schtick

He may even come close
To being as slick
As the English ****
Sherlock Holmes and,
Dr. Watson and his stick

Two men
Down in
The roulettes of the den
Landed every time on the red one
And every time his luck had just begun
Look out you two
You’re gonna get hit
If this Henry Gondorff cheats
Then you’re dead beat
You won’t get to even feel a *****
You’ll feel you’ve been stung by the bee

After he gets back at all the mafia men
Trying to show off by showing a ridiculous ten
He writes down a cheque
To buy out the casino
With just a sign of a Mont Blanc fountain pen

After he’s done
He goes down to the *******
Leading a pack of ten
A boisterous pack of men
They’ll probably get laid by the number one
In the house by the name of Whetton by the second

After he’s done running after medicine
She’s already got his fix
She don’t need no kick
He’s given her a night of his sweet love-making
Her heart isn’t aching

Ohh but **** it
Not again
She’s falling in love again
Being class number one chick
With a style of her own
She’s understanding a love she’s never known
You thought she was some dumb ***-addict

Now the guy knows that she’s smart
Being the upstart
He’s warm with affection again
With one night of love-makin’
With the maid of Whetton
Need no one beat her
Because he needs her

The two make love again
Forgetting the punishment
Of getting married to their sweetheart
Who is innocent

The man was after all depressed
He was sexually repressed
After the death of his marital success
She didn’t want him anywhere near his girlfriend

Of course she’d heard of him
They were close to each other then
Before he started thwarting his morals
As his life spirals
Downward
They know he’s up to no good
With the ***** in the neighbourbood

i don't write, i don't write rhyme, i am a lumberjack with words, and for those reasons: i have imbued some masculine dignity into the art form: i don't do well-wishes, hopes, utopian forms of the sudden burst of emotion; every time i'm trolled i turn into an orc, ravenous with an adrenaline thrill: and pristine english sarcasm comes to the fore: i first nibble on the genitals, the ego hardly mentioned, i mean, who does attack a person's taste in music with such adamant enforcement... but? what pissess me off the most? how puny the argument matter is: freedom of speech should, never, ever! bypass the rule of at least a few dialectical exchanges... blah blah all you want: but what's the point of a freedom, if there is no guiding "aesthetic" surrounding it? ******* caviar on toast, just as absurd as an avocado on toast: point for point: a load of *******.

it always makes sense to listen
       to some scandinavian
music, with interludes of rain,
in the night, after a few ***** sharpshooters -
peaches & cream moment...
can't argue with it -
esp. if it's *corvus corax's song
                 a i mbealtaine, **** just sticks to
the wall, and in every appropriate way:
feels a tune of the heart -
i once had a dialectical mini with a biology
teacher of mine:
i said that lyrics mattered, and that you
needed to understand them -
she said: only the melody matters -
in cooking that's comparable to the presentation
versus the flavour -
     i'm sure she had the hots for me,
a few days passed, and she put on a hijab...
god, but raven dark folds of her pakistani hair
really could be compared to the thickness
of custard...
   shame she put on a hijab soon after -
i didn't even mind her post-acne peppered
face: i thought it gave her character -
and those **** chubby cheeks just fused
perfectly with the thickness of her hair...
hair... every woman's plot of jealousy begins
with another woman's hair...
     at least men are compensated with
a beard... me?
      ugh... too much: on my chest, on my stomach,
on my head: i have to wet it to keep it
from turning into a rampant amazon in
post-apocalyptic new york...
       and yes, i do like the ***** on my face -
i became bored with shaving,
            plus i look more monarchical -
regent - loser regent - nonetheless regent:
donning a beard is exhuming some minor
authority - long hair? you get two food-stamps
ye ******* 'ippy! say hello to the cockney
meister schtick: herr H.
  oh no, not ******, i'm bored of citing that:
if they only let him into the arts academy
and allowed him to paint his mediocre
paintings -
        he wouldn't be that much different
from picasso...
    sure **** he became an "artist" -
       only an "artist" could have conjured
auschwitz; gentlemen! applause for the vienna
school of art!
it was always about not writing cute,
not writing ******* overladen with rigid
technique, most terrible: avoid rhyme:
at all, and i mean all costs;
     leave that for the nursery brigadiers
of bombing blank pages with word bombs...
i can't stomach this notion of "cute" -
   this pedantic pseudo-haikus in women's
poetry: by comparison,
      sylvia plath produces a raw steak
tartar - you know, originating from the people
that made the steak from horse-meat,
and downed a litre of horse-blood,
once upon a time in the days of the golden horde;
sylvia just rhymes unintentionally -
   she tickles rhyme, but as soon as she
has a couplet, she hides it,
  this game of hide & seek &
                  seek rhyme & hide rhyme,
is, in all honestly? genius!
     i find that sometimes just one couplet
work to perfection like glue...
tell you what - i'll let you in on a little secret,
you want to write poetry?
  start by watching australia's masterchef -
i know, weird - it dawned on me that it's worthwhile
watching cooking shows...
  given (a) you just entered a post-pavlov experiment,
and (b) they talk about food these days
are works of art...
         guess what, every time i watched
obelix eat his way through one of the herculean
tasks of asterix in the 12 (1976 a.d.)
   i always felt obliged to eat something...
if i were you, i'd start watching some cookery
shows: after all... the eyes eat prior to
the mouth... you'll find that much of writing is
culinary;
      the "placebo" pointers are already in place:
people have arrived at the multifacet meaning
of binging.
    
and yes, when i said that modern day talk,
even the puny internet "not-real-life"
   (funny how most of us shop and bank online,
not real what?) types of conversation -
really?
           beside the point -
   it's not rude to engage in dialectics
(as nietzsche infamously noted) -
            i don't understand staging two opposite
arguments and expect civility to ensue -
ars dialectica est quaestio ad infininitum,
   "post scriptum" ad nauseam -
to simply have rigid, aphoristic opinions,
without having them question,
well... that's the downfall of appreciating
nietzsche by the modern crowd...
         what we're talking is "safe spaces" -
nietzsche, of all people: instigated this notion!
imagine the paradox;
dialectics instigate rude societies?
      no! dialectics instigate eternal societies!

i sometimes consider sudoku puzzles optical
illusions,
     there's sometimes absolutely no "logic"
involved - well, there is: a tree line a tongue
of a serpent, Y - oh you know -
that invisible γΥy in the sky...
   but once you start solving each puzzle
you realise: ****, there's a blindspot in these?!
and it always feels like there is,
given the matrix to the power of O (revolvi)

( s / se   | e |  | n | n / nw
  s / sw  |w | | s  | n / ne     )º
                  
a tongue that turns into an eclair.

conclusively?
oh, just something minor, a minor detail -
if you ever chance to step on the continent of europe,
do you know how much darwinism you'll hear?
NONE!
       europeans have become bored of this very
english genesis of affairs...
       yes, bored is the appropriate word -
it can be years on the continent where darwinism
is cited, or the fetish over david attenborough
exemplified...
          to most continental europeans the natural
world is nothing more than a blip -
ask the krupp von essen family: steel! steel! steel!
darwinism is only a respected choice
of argumentative positioning in the anglosphere,
outside of it? a tumbleweed;
and i'm of the continental inclination -
   i source my history not in a platonism -
which darwinism is: **** similis - as man be
clearly identifiable as an evolved ape -
i place my history in something much more
compatible within the framework of today -
monkeys used sticks & stones,
man? man uses letters & numbers...
      i see my place in history from a purely
etymological perspective -
  pre-etymology is just boring as it is,
i.e. how the romans plagiarised some of the greek
phonetic encoding -
    then again: it's a mystery how of all
ancient texts - the greeks invented the omicron...
oh, sorry, the wheel...
   sanskrit? any wheels there? arabic, any wheels
there? noope.
  so i wonder as i give my summa summarum...
oh yeah: roman is the masculine (w)
and greek is the feminine (ω) -

which would be easier to solve

(a) 0  0  0  0  0  0  0  0  0
      0  8  0  6  0  5  0  7  0
      9­  3  0  2  0  7  0  5  8
      0  5  9  0  0  0  6  3  0
      7 ­ 0  0  9  0  3  0  0  1
      0  0  8  0  0  0  5  0  0
      0  ­9  0  3  0  4  0  8  0
      8  1  0  0  0  0  0  9  4
      0  7­  5  0  0  0  3  6  0

or

(b) χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ
      χ  θ  χ  ζ  χ  ε  χ  η  χ
      ι  γ  χ  β  χ  η  χ  ε­  θ
      χ  ε  ι  χ  χ  χ  ζ  γ  χ
      η  χ  χ  ι  χ  γ  χ  χ ­ α
      χ  χ  θ  χ  χ  χ  ε  χ  χ
      χ  ι  χ  γ  χ  δ  χ  θ  ­χ
      θ  α  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  ι  δ
      χ  η  ε  χ  χ  χ  γ  ζ  χ­

                       ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?

i suggest you try this, before learning oriental
languages -
it's all cross-eyed spaghetti monsters
from here on in.

I was stuck in free verse
On the circuit
With slammers renowned
Ripping rhymes sublime
Heard and seen
By the deaf and blind,
Respectively...

But the spin soon spun
From slick to schtick
Layered so thick with more
Of the same ole tricks
That even Mike and Spike
Couldn't just do it
Like before...

So I upgraded my lyrical Nike
Of the open court
To a pair of couplets
And formally entered the draft
With the pros...

"With the #1 pick...."

My dedication to the craft
And hours logged after dark,
Flipping through Plath, Wilde
And Walker
Yielded the manuscript of my dreams,
And a YES
From the publisher

I had arrived...

Or so it seemed...

The path well-travelled
Of the published pros,
Once paved in exclusivity,
Now glittered  with chaos and opportunity

And the carcasses of couplets in print...

The sprint to models new
Laced in virtual strings
On tablets, kindles and bing
Had  begun....

~ P
#lyricalevolution

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...

even though you think
our dots connect
in ways we only
understand

i've been there before
with a thousand
other clowns

who had
the same schtick

of trying too hard
to make a silk purse
from a piece of craypaper

By: Cedric McClester

Mox nix
That they’ve heard
From Hope Hicks
Who was up to
Her usual tricks
Because those are the kind
He usually picks
When he wants to put in the fix

Mox nix
It doesn’t matter
Who he picks
Once he knows
What makes them tick
And they’re good
At the rhetoric
Of not making him into a ****

Mox nic
It doesn’t matter
That he’s sick
And gives his base
That red meat schtick
While ignoring the damage
That it can inflict
By hiding his hand while throwing a brick

Mox nix
It doesn’t matter how big
The signature affixed
To the royal decrees
He throws in the mix
Or the former aides
He summarily evicts
From his cabinet
Of sycophants and hicks









Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

.               ha ha... one word...
wpajać...
a word that implies
indocrination...
   ****...
who am i to
govern a labour
of loan words...
     pajac: clown...
acute c: short
and sweet,
no need to extend the matter
into a caron of
an "added"
                hidden H or Z...
naše kamienice,
  waše ulice...
(our tenements,
your streets)
the slogan,
before the jews were
robbed
prior to the
            holocaust...
world war II:
apparently,
the only people that
suffered, were, the jews...
let's just roll the time back,
and allow the right sort
of collatarel
to reply,
       to revert back...
wait,
   wait,
         just wait a little...
currently? i wondered...
when poland played austria
was i watching a home game
or an away game?
was it a warsaw crowd,
or a vienna crowd?
       sowiecki gałgan
(soviet idiot) -
sorry "lads",
this is were i turn all
deadpool om du...
                  i lost a limb
and a woman, to either some
arab sheikh, or some
h'american oligarch...
                      take you pick...
then again:
i was never going to be
made limbo with **** propaganda...
  oops or oh?
big ******* difference...
like: oh is more of a surprise
surrounding a mistake...
oops? more intentional...
last time i heard...
it was infantile
of me to read a bit of
sienkiewič...
    by the fire & the sword...
like...
i was reading something
akin to a harlequinn
novel and ****...
       history,
made into a novel...
next thing i know,
reading the current journalistic
diarrhoea...
   listening to the death of the winged
hussars by
krzesimir dębski
i'm pedro retardo the third...
because i have an elephant's
capacity to sort and assort
the faculty of memory...
  good for me, great for jazz...
i'm not part of the :western leftist"
amnesia get-together...
i have, a, past,
acquiring the english zunge
doesn't change anything...
if there's anything that it does
change...
    i'm hardly going to be part of it...

i'm awake,
it's currently 20 minutes to 3am,
some of the birds associated
with the english summer have
migrated back,
and they're squirting out
mating calls...
             i was given one opportunity
to have a freesome,
i declined...
i figured...
3 prostitutes...
   5 hours...
   **** it...
faking a death of a loved one
on my, then,
student loan bank
account overdraft limit...
   eh...
               i just started to think
about Broadmoor...
how, i'd figure out being
an artist,
  and sit out...
an ontological / zoological
upkeep,
sedated... yet somehow with
enough greens peas to
write something fathomable...
and... it would all end,
in 1930s Disneyland...

          where l.s.d. was off-limits,
and you could *******
an ego into the vacous entity
of **** of thought...
by simply watching the *******
cartoons! in black & white!

before ******-doo!
and the marvel universe...
before ******* batman,
and all that:
superhero but not superpowers
schtick!            ****!
like i wanna be faking it,
but then matthew mcconaughey
is 5'6" on the oscar altar
of public ****-talking,
and i'm watching him in
all these rom-coms and he's like:
giant me *****!
12" **** to boot!
  watch me oil up an alpha seal
before clapping its way into
a harem!
what's the difference
between a ****** and a dwarf?
don't know...
  but his middle name is,
and his full looks like:
middgy
  'matthew mcconaughey' darf...

i didn't plagiariße...
i just borrowed...
****...
from...
   shoe00head
mingling with darth-drool...
and the whole:
now that my dad's dead:
i get to milk the cow
sort of...
    "reiterating" the nostalgia.

people wanted funny!
until the jokes had to become
so complex,
as to compete with
20th century fwench absurd
literature...
and something resembling
german philosophy,
of the 20th century...
   **** me, strap-on with Locke...
you'll go far...
as far as 2001...
years later?
don't ask me...
i said very little,
                      and just watched.

LOSER BLOCK...
so i did two things my mother asked
me...
  filled out her disability application form...
cysts on her spine,
arthritis,
       injections into her spine and wrist,
hi replacement...
no, no chernobyll never happened...
walking with a cane,
aged in her early 50s...
  wrote a lovely rubric...
dug a hole,
planted a xeres cherry tree in the garden....
and then... relaxed...
        started to spot worthwhile
pedantic observations in a language:
which i "somehow" don't own,
or have claim to (by french psychology
third year student exchange programmes),
since i'm not native...
and drank... oh ****...
drank enough ms amber
to put a ******* rhino to sleep...
and?
              listened to some movie
soundtracks, avoided jazz
and punk...
              i never allowed myself
to brag about ***,
i had a chance for a *******...
declined...
     n'ah...
                 i had enough brains
to only bellow in a clarity of a transaction...
if i didn't pay for ***,
as a man,
i'd be paying for someone else...
i already know how unprotected ***
looks like...
oddly enough...
my my... aren't the prostitutes
overtly sensitive when it comes
to labouring under a scrutiny of
responsibility?
      ******* + a ******...
  that's why i don't understand the motives
of Jackie the serial Reply Guy
manifesto...
           an hour...
that's all it takes...
  but being tangled,
     faked,
    being dragged into nuance...
just schlichtlügen?
       you know... i'd rather chew on a *******
bay leaf...
   in all honesty...
i like playing responsible,
when i'm expected to play responsible...
i'll pay an extra 10 quid
on the 10 quid entry fee,
and the 110 quid per hour
if i'm going to proove
that h.i.v. is not transmitted
******...
no, not her playing cotton-candy...
me eating the oyster...
     that's ******* hilarious...
i had to visit a *******...
to clear my conscience
of, having, once upon a time,
a relationship,
that lasted roughly 6 months...
with a russian, western,
free woman of the world...
i actually had to visit a *******
to clear my conscience...
and then say:
whatever the **** i liked!
amazing...
           and then i cut off
any unfathomable desire to persist
my allowance of "using" prostitutes
to clear my conscience...
akin to the last time,
i "blamed" myself for not trimming
my *****...
which i made into an excuse for
her not touching my genitals,
which i later translated as
succumbing to merely kissing her...
with that sort of mouth,
that i kissed...
i probably ****** off a hundred
*****...
   and felt: m'eh about it...
but getting those words out of her
mouth,
was, by far, anything that
a faked onomatopoeia of "marriage"
would ever allow...
oh the german are ****** with us...
we still own Marienburg...

last time i heard:
before having a historically minded
memory hole was
deemed "infantile"
by the neu-communists in western
europe...
that, citadel?
   it wasn't constructed from red bricks...
ghostly grey / white bricks...
what?
        Marienburg...
now... the suspect opinion...
is the expansion of Islam akin
to the black plague...
resembled akin...
for the sole reason that...
us, Polacks,
experienced the same fate of
the "arabs"...
how we entertained the flow
of the crusades?

  wow! revelation!
discovering h'america in a can of
sardines!
or Einstien: in an acronym...
akin to mine...
M(atthew) C(onrad)...
   eh... like i'd tell you anything more
beyond the first letter of
my surname E(
              **** it)
                                     (schlert)

then again...
   why do people dox?
       99% of such interactions
ever end with said people,
sharing a meal,
or a drink,
or hand-jobs while taking
a shower together...
so...
                 i'll still leave this canvas
with an unrepentant fetish
for the german language...
english? complete...
now i have to further my interests
into the buffer-zone
of origins.