i read stories of angry drunks and wonder:
           why am i so "pathetic" reading into calm?
don't know... truths by a millionaire
might make more sense...
mix ***** with coke watch
the icecubes melt and then take another
sip and it's harsh, pinching like
a crab's signature...
         but then alcohol formulates
around me like a memory tool,
gone are the lessons of school,
      gone the need for arithmetics that
lead to no hoard of gold of erebor -
just that cinema and standstill -
   like my genesis of memory,
  with a great-grandfather in kindergarten
him playing the piano and me playing
a toy piano aged 4, and in my memory
he representing no clear image
but a mere shadow / merely a shadow...
               or laughing at my great-grandmother's
funeral, then sitting up at night
   gnashing my teeth so hard
until i managed to bite off a piece of my
left mandibular central incisor...
         and in the mourning crowd
  when close family members were throwing
flowers into the grave unearthed
and being asked to do likewise
i shouted no!...
                      and took the intended flower
to be thrown into the grave
   to my grandparent's home and sat there
with a candle, gently burning
     the petals with the flame until
the petals, originally red, turned purple;
it seems i can't forget my education in chemistry,
that's not me saying i prefer thought "experiments",
i find them abhorring,
             it's still perplexing how that rose
that was intended to be thrown into the grave of my
great-grandmother ceremoniously
     turned purple from red when gently
applying fire from wax...
        i'm sure a bunsen burner flame of blue
flame would have scortched it...
    as i'm sure you agree, there are hues
to fire, blue flames and very engaging chemical
experiments... in all honesty?
   i did the best chemical experiment in school
and not at university... thanks to mrs. khan...
it involved extracting polyethylyne
in an in vitro environment...
               what you might call an event horizon
akin to physics...
                    oh physics, and the fact that
it's focus on procuring adherents does not stand
within an in vivo environment they propose
to speak about it...
          oddly enough, chemistry does not
popularise itself, only biologists and physicists
popularise themselves,
         chemists usually turn into amphetamine
pushers...
  like: because it began with a ****** name
     and an even ******* primate, do i care?
no... i'm getting drunk!
  why do physicists and biologists get the *******
high-ground in culture and chemists get
the sub-culture? oh right... poetry and
the counter-culture...
      i own the literature:
a. atkins' physical chemistry
          b mcmurry's organic chemistry
c. shriver & atkins' inorganic chemistry...
   from experience though:
    organic chemistry is where you have fun...
it's almost culinary in nature,
   and the patience involved...
sometimes an experiment can last for days...
i find the other two environments too sterile,
well... inorganic chemistry is spectacular,
i'll just add that it's flamboyant...
             physical chemistry is a ******* graveyard,
that **** is so sterile that you don't
   even know whether it's physics or just
applied mathematics...
               but how electrons travel in
organic chemistry's textbooks?
            i could do that **** for ever -
                    the nearest thing to x-ray vision
of what is formed and how it all seems like
quasi-robotics of something taking off a faulty
limb and asking for a more manageable counterpart,
it's all metaphor though, evidently not literally
applicable...    but that doesn't say it's not similar
in the case of having such a point of view...
  but yeah... why do biologists and physicists
think they can speak about their theories
  as populists might speak their political agenda
when they're forgotten the principum in vitro?
                 what they are doing is what
current right-wing political movements are doing,
giving them a platform akin to populism
     i.e. via the principum in vivo...
                    i mean it's there, including chemists
running amok shoving toothpaste and petrol down
peoples' lifestyles... and sure, pills...
    but i find that less demeaning than showing
ideas into peoples' heads... like it might
       change their narrative skills for the better...
still...
        now i'm tempted to find the third alternative
to vitro / vivo...
                               in mirror, a replica,
    something that can compensate the phenomenological
groundwork for, say, the punk or goth movement...
     trouble is, what could be resurrected from latin
to derive the word mirror...
     mercury?                           it has to be,
given in silico, so there must be a counter-elemental
derivative working from that...
thus -                                             in mercurius,
     that ought to prescribe the x            definiton
     to a situation                  where + is rarely
                       attributed to the movement of the canvas;
and yes, writing can also imply
serving the dish neglect to all wordly affairs.

She closed one grey eye
and watched as
the now
scortched
diamond dust
slowly
settled into a
small
pool at  
the bottom
of the bubble.
A tiny heart pounded
like a turbine piston
hard and relentless
against her bare,
freckled dressed chest.
Small beads of
sweat formed
then dried almost
immeditly
down her bare back
and in between
the small mounds
she wore as *******.

She closed her right eye and
held the wand
up towards the
bare bulb light.
She watched transfixed
as the once delicate,
man made,
toxic concoction
that was now
a heated puddle
of stimuli cooled.
Then brought forth images
of great stretching snow flakes
and shattered
diamonds reaching
all throughout
the bubble tipped
tool  she had
taken in as a lover.

And there will
be no sleep
tonight for the
Down Town dealers
and this delicate
lost soul with
diamonds
in her  eyes.
Theres too many
memories that
need to be
tamed ,
too many
nightmares to
give in to sleep.
Stay awake ,
create more time
and consume every bad
thing that's before
you.

Seek out a cold
place in the night,
then stare at the heavens
while  shaking
a clenched fist upon
the serpents.
As our world reveals
more another
falls,picks up
a tool  and
turns to what works.

Choosing the
easy way out
is never an easy
decision.
As crystals cool
then melt again
another decision has
turned to
death in the
form of a captive
life without
freedom enough to
care or breath.

She walked toward
the window and
stood naked
and high before
the city.
A tear tumbled
and dried
before it ever
left her face.

Another diamond
obsessed ,dreamless
dreamer,
waiting out the
night,dealing with
the madness and
sharing none
of her horrors
with the shadowed
world she was forced
to haunt.
Living every hour
wide  awake,
wired and full
of pills.
Desperate for some
other place thats
far away from here.

Slowly
and quietly
dying an older
souls death.
Far before
what should
have been
her peaceful
and merciful
kind of ending.

He said he was drawn to the ocean attracted attached.
Standing in the water, the tide rolling out pulling at his ankles as the sand covered his feet.

Every time they would ask why. The simple answer was this scortched world put the  raging fire in his chest out.

One night as the sea tugged at his ankles he slipped away, like sand through your fingers.
The only thing left behind was his barren foot prints and a note .

Claiming he had found a new world, a space nestled at the bottom under the cold and stormy seas. A new world calm, mute and free.
He wrote goodbye, I love you. Wanting the water be his bed to rest.

You must have found this new world, having fun? Enjoying yourself? Because I haven’t seen you since.

i've sifted through all the youtube videos
of vloggers and...
i'm not sure why i don't go back to
listening to BBC radio 4...
it can be said: you either "move up" to talk radio
from having listened to classical music
or you "move down" and listen to jazz...

i only watched a snipped of:
sometimes always never - starring bill nighy...
and i wanted to watch more...
but... nothing came in the way...
i felt like sitting in the kitchen on a stool
drinking a san miguel beer and smoking
a cigarette: come night i've shot all the birds
dead... there's only me never wishing
to sigh... the vacuum and some wind...

how did i get drawn into vlogging...
i will never know... i listen like a patient
parent and it's still: knock-knock no one answers...
because... this isn't BBC Radio 4...
so a welcome return to... being my own d.j.

in and out of whims... today's whim...
grant green's: green blue...
when jazz is still somehow the blues...

it's not an urban myth...
when the ****** alcoholics became desperate
and there was a shortage of *****...
they'd filter a bottle of denaturant through
a slice of sour-crust bread...
yes... that fluorescent purple liquid...
methylated alcohol...
        and here's not me writing about going
to an irish catholic school where...
they would teach 10year olds about
the pit-falls of sniffing glue...
no mention of LSD mind you...

oh yeah... they would filter the denaturant
through a slice of sour-crust bread...
and then drink it...
otherwise i don't know how they ended
up a tier above drinking perfumes...

competition... competition...
is it always about competition?
what about jobs that are fixed... and do not
allow competition...
how there's a rigid schedule and what not...
i mean... a self-employed taxi driver
can compete... but it's hardly possible
for a bus driver to act like a taxi driver...
not everything is a hand in poker
or...               irregular plumbing...
and sure... i too would be jealous of
all the *** elsewhere...
if i weren't the piston and the sweat and...
the only joy i ever got from ***
was seeing her moan...
                      and that's... toothpicks compared
to when you can be walking through
a square mile of pines and only pines...
and pine needles...

- nonetheless i had to make sure...
is a haig club whiskey worth all that it's worth...
at 25 quid per 70cl?
if it wasn't on a discount... i wouldn't...
i'd stick to the reserve...
problem... well... you can sell beer in cans...
provided you have a glass to pour it in...
for the cushion of head of whipping cream
to sooth your lips on...
you can sell a beer in brown bottles you can
sell beer in green bottles...
you might get away with selling beer in
clear bottles: if it's a corona beer and -esque...
but you can't...
you simply can't get away with selling
whiskey in... purple tinged bottles...

the haig club is a ******: over-priced whiskey...
what's with the scots brewing everything
so smoky?! to begin with?
i get the smoked salmon... but no...
the irish at least allow their whiskey
to mellow... sweeten a bit...
you can drink an irish moon down and out
through and into a dipper of
the lips making plucking sounds befitting
a connoisseur...

but the gig is up when you over-price your
whiske... only because you're selling it
in purple glass bottles...
again: is it whiskey i'm drinking or is it
a perfume? i might as well be drinking perfume...
good that the "whiskey" was on a discount...

interlude: finally melville caught a goldfish
and all of his wishes were: let it be a whale,
let it be a whale, let it be a whale...
      
there's no way in hell getting away selling
over-priced whiskey...
just because the bottle looks "groovy"...
and it's all purple...
as i already mentioned...
    purple... purple reminds me of...
those desperado alcoholics from under
the iron curtain who would filter a bottle of
denaturant through a slice of sour-crust bread...

whiskey and purple... sorry... ms. amber...
and they're selling this over-priced ****
like it wasn't supposed to be equivalent to
a commoners' bells' whiskers 'n' scratches...

a girlfriend of the remains of a bottle...
if you see a tank parked... and it's not a warzone...
let me know... i'd love to gear it up
for a salvo for, no particular reason other than
to make up for straight-lines with a zigzag...

these four walls, this roof... this floor...
this irritated bladder...
this hope for an 8 hour kipper and for midnight
not having to be extended toward sunrise of
a 6am March...

off-the-cut when writing comes this...
spontaneously and lazily...
like it might be reading a proper fold-out
of a sunday newspaper in england...
a harem for each time i ****** off
and performed a genocide into a tissue
on the throne of thrones...
and subsequently took a shower having
simultaneously taken a ****...
and all things remained swan-esque:
monogamous: or waiting for her to come
to aged mid-life and in crisis...

what with: the children or the cats?
the cats or the grandchildren?
i have yet to come across a grave with
an epitaph...
                        again... some reading into:
marquis de sade: i'm waiting for my libido
to fizzle out... otherwise what shame
is there... when i'd need a harem...
a solo project doesn't even help the matters...
so what shame is there:
it's hardly going to turn a profit
if i plug in... **** please oh please
myself on cam in a sultry room...

last time i heard: all that's needed is a toilet
and a screaming ****...
there's no need to broadcast the whole affair...
then again... this was only going
to be a critique of the haig club whiskey...
sold in purple glass bottles...
over-priced...

in a love paralysis... esp. concerning
the "enchanted" periods of lapse of attention
to mind the and any details...

that the monolingual will play a game
of scrabble or solve a crossword puzzle
is his testament to not bothering to learn
a second language...
the bilingual schizoid debate...
or no debate...
                    
a bed fit for two... but then my shadow is
a glutton and a miser and a...
everything that's supposed to be scortched
under the sun...
melted from sand to somehow make glass...
coy fear: the music of...
leaving vacuums and absences...
and cringe...

                     if this was only ever easy...
i'd write this to later don a niqab...
         but lucky me there's a difference between
the french public intellectual...
and an english public intellectual...
of the latter: the public yet not aware of
media scorn... "free media"...
as free as tabloid papers come tomorrow...

a swift hand on democracy... a quick shuffle...
a bit like an iron grip in autocracy...
as long as there's no focus...
no trained eye... a mirage of a "passing of power"...

how overtly faux pas politico of moi...

                   lazily creeping toward golgotha...
and all those exhausted images...
a richard broutigan would call it:
slouching toward...
                       that others live the fullest
and their lovliest...
that they have teeth and grit and sandpaper's
worth of skin to itch a sketch with...
applause! applause!

jerks off every night...
but never makes a single buck from it...
as "others" might... doing it before a camera...
then again: *** is not exactly a flick
light switch either...
neurological patterns and what not...
the lost cinema - the everyday cinema -
the holy trinity of **** **** and *****...
the genocide of scrambled eggs with no yoke...

otherwise know as liberation
from not being circumcised...
                            and no other crescent motiff.

you don't sell whiskey in purple glass bottles!
over-priced, an apology to ms. amber,
outside the bedroom there's still the obvious chance
of keeping up with...
the queue at a supermarket cashier's...
there's the polka-dotted umbrella...
there's the luftwaffe precision pigeon
dropping a proper blitz "cranium" on
a bowler hat in trafalgar sq....
                     there's all this tsunami of the mundane
that keeps the clock a worthwhile
artefact to keep to mind the horizons and
pitfalls of a single day...

call it the heart of the house: a clock...
call it an itchy hand when the trouser pockets
are empty...
call it a *** note...
my god... a return to a formality of language
via a dear sir, letter...

       none of this is to be minded as:
yours sincerely / faithfully.

stretched far from sight
you bring a fire to the night
once all alone.

but not far from there
scortched desire
burns it up.

can't make up your mind,
you said.

make it simple please,
strike a beat
thunder punch the love,
into it..

not like a stranger's greeting.

Subterranean; flowing like a constant river,
Covered in metres of memes, and hidden.

A man's tears.
Waterfalls falling behind walls of mountain's flesh.
Poetry in forbidden books piled high and burned

By censorist historians.

You pick a scortched piece of page from my footprint,
Blow on it faintly; as if dust off of leaf gold,

And read, when you think I'm not
Watching.

arms stretched out
your presence falls to dust.
clinging to lost particles
essence blows to the wind.

Never mine alone

your hot breath whispers
nape of neck scortched
tendrils embrace fragile frame.

How could you?

callous manipulation
your earworm hypnotized
siren's song to keep me at sea.

*****

satisfied by legs sprawled wide
predatory habits
engorge on sickly perfume
latte skin prefered

Why her..?

I have grown tired of being sick and tired
Always attempting to contain myself in a society unworthy of my containment
It's depressing...and stressful
Here I am screaming at the top of my lungs,but to the rest of the world I am mute
As quite as ******* mouse
They view me a mere child so incompetent he has the inability to do anything
They treat me like I'm a ******* *****
But do I ever really frown
No, I just smile as if everything is okay
But everything is not okay!!!!
In my mind I watch them all burn to ashes,
As I just stand over their scortched bodies eating their remaining flesh and bone
It is so twisted up there that I come to fear myself
It's a struggle for me to say anything because then they'll view me as a psychotic *****
When all I want is respect
To be treated as if I'm human as well
But then again do I really mind
If or when I finally snap they'll notice me then
They'll all notice me then
Then finally I'd gain some respect

so i situate my ego on an equilibrium,
i decided to rekindle the old sketch,
engrossing the legs to walk,
while the hands turned purple-numb
   in my care to exhaust parts of my
body: to no relevant pursuit...
well: that's called
the ego situated between the equator
of legs versus hands,
  as the old saying goes:
  the devil makes work of idle hands...
or should i rephrase that:
   better take to walking
for the prime source of inspiration;
and truly,
    if my life was a dream,
a fairy tale, an account of living
in north korea... i'd be more glad
working in a sewer...
              but i stick to the maxim:
my life is so boring,
  i decided to write about it.
that's 9... nine (not nein) years
as a quasi-celibate...
     what between the odd
south african teacher with dry
genitals that i deemed to call
the equivalent of ****...
    and the several romanian prostitutes
who taught me how
the madonna-***** complex is real
in women when they began *******
by smearing cream into
          their vaginas for added lubrication
at the end of the day...
        and i thought that the worst
thing imaginable was me jerking off,
starting from age 7 / 8...
   women have much more imagination
in the realm of genitals...
  anyway...
   or that Thai girl i picked up in a park
drinking beer, a rush of sudden conversation,
took her home, ****** her in
the garden and ******* into my arm...
      so it's not like i wasn't aware of
being sensible about how or where i
plotted those flowery-***** sprouts...
  i haven't been circumcised
so i know what a quasi-circumcision
looks like, i know from ****
how i am better off rolling it back
so my "lack" matches up to her floral patten
of the *****...
    ******* once circumcised
makes no sense... absolutely none...
       the ******* exists for the sole purpose
of allowing a ****** "*******"
prior to the zenith of your brain's completely
development... early 20s is a time
when your brain is fully developed...
    which makes abortions, a tad bit
excessive, riddled with protestant
predestination arguments...
   you can't **** anything
  that isn't exsaxtly human form...
let alone fully developed (minding the brain)
prior to the age of mid-20s...
    the only thing that's killed is a potential...
stacked in the what if universe alongside
the Nazis conquering Britian...
      which is why, i guess,
people source the cogito genesis within
the brain, or should i just call it Brian?
       i'm not saying go for it!
  i'm saying, under the circumstances,
i first ****** her with a ******,
     she said take it off,
so i asked her: please take the pill...
so she took it...
    then she "forgot" to take it...
   she even chose the engagement ring...
    then i finished my "studies"
in edinburgh, went back to london
to start a new degree and work part-time
as a roofer...
         and then all hell broke loose!
  thankfully i am not writing like a Don Juan
might write...
  if my life was as colourful as the exploits of
Don Juan... i wouldn't be writing about it...
   i'd sit idle and watch the movies
provided in the memory-cinema...
   getting a hard-on ever so often
and completely disregarding *****...
       but i'm not...
   so here goes...
                     but you know what's scary?
she told me this, the one i "forcefully"
impregnated and can't stop thinking about?
she told me in her sacred heart of intimacy
that she was abducted as an early sprout of
teen due to her family being well off in Russia
and kept prisoner... and sexually exploited...
   as a kid...
                   now that i think about it:
like i already mentioned,
  i don't have a rhino's horn needing ****
in terms of ******* into a tissue or a ****...
i don't have this urge to be an arsonist
to plop a **** into a woman's womb...
maybe losing my virginity to a third year
exchange student of psychology from
Grenòble / due to the accent on O
   it's actually Grenòbl -
    what, you think i lost it to a *******?
no, *** starved spent a year and a half at uni
i decided to have a poke with one
   when i went to Poland to visit my
grandparents... told you: a total ******* of a story.
yes, she was Ukranian,
  she had one gold tooth...
   and we drank ***** and i ****** her for
two hours...
   after which she was like: you done?
then we lay in an embrace and i kissed her
forehead and cheeks...
  and she said: you're a good person...
apparently not!
     ****!
            the worst is that the brain is so late
in registering all this *******...
   if we're talking we're genital prone
from, literally the word go...
and the brain only catches up to the body
once you pass being aged 20+...
who's to do what when they engage
in a relationship who tells you
they've been abducted, and evidently
*****, and then they twist and turn
   your care to provide, but bypass it
and tell you: it'll be fine, **** me,
impregnate me, and we'll work it out
after...
               i was about to sit my final exams
and get a job in Scotland at some chemical
plant! what the ****, what the ****
am i doing living a sordid life,
paitning my face to a clown
   and "partying" at Halloween?
   now i'm saying what she said to me:
life is ****...
         well... it trully is right now...
the greatest joy i have is: walking, drinking
4 cans of beer...
    passing a winter tree,
the sky hazy with cloud, and a scythe of a moon
looked from under a tree, bald and synapse filled,
scattering it's twiggy centipede arms...
   and i say:
      it's not exactly a scene from a poet
in graveyard,
   more like a drunk in suburbia: but i get the picture.
all i meant to say, is that after the very brief
relationship... i didn't do anything stupid
as to impregnate someone...
     i don't even know if i did...
     but as Nietzsche once said:
no one really tells me anything these days...
and so, the last news i heard concerning
me was my father saying:
   don't you think there's a shaman in your family?
if that isn't a pleasant surprise
much congested with huh?!, i don't know what is.
i said it already:
Thai bisexual girl, picked her up in a park,
she was drinking alone,
took her home, played her some jazz,
then switched to playing her
  michael greilsammer, and we ****** in the garden,
i ******* into my hand rather
than... rather than? this ain't *****-land,
what, her face?! sicko.
             then i walked her home,
put on her a jacket of mine which she drowned in,
and just outside her home
   she gave me a necklace with a ring
attached to it... that changed colour.
              so you want tartar (i.e. raw) poetry?
well... this is it...
         i can't be as systematic as de Sade...
but i can recount a memory or two...
               oh, ** **, don't get all *****
on me... it's a sad sad (insert snigger) tale...
          have i ever ****** a black girl?
yeah... picked her up in a Stratford pub,
this plump middle-aged beauty...
she takes me to her flat...
                two kids in it...
   she throww Hanzel and Gretyl off the bed
and tells me to aim at her squeezed tighs rather
than her ******... i do about two strokes
and then say to her... i can't...
   i remain in her bed, when i wake up
little nergo Hanzel is standing beside the bed
looking at me,
   completely naked i take him up
   and lay him onto my chest where he falls asleep...
  gently stroking his frizz / afro /
scortched keratin...
     and as i endlessly say:
   there no imagination in this, only experience...
if there was any to begin with...
i'd be Colonel Mc-******* Disney
(you know what's scary...
   i'm writing this and there's complete silence
around me... akin to that ancient Polish
proverb: cicha woda, brzegi rwie...
    i.e. silent water, tears away the shores,
tea tie tare tear tears tares... she picks
sea-shells on the sea-shore...
  that's gagging for the tetragrammaton to appear,
if not the already stated arguments
bound elsewhere).

From dust to dawn
Another lover gone
Heave *** it hurts no more
Lovers in sin
Raveged by the lust within
Beastly vigor
Scortched by the fire
Cast down by desire
Who am I to hire but a replacement for a liar

Do you ever wonder why,
leaves are most beautiful ,
when they're about to die?

Scortched red like fireflies,
they sail delicately across
the sullen sky.

But tussling against the whirlwind,
each little leaf dwindles.
Now breathless and wilted.
Disfigured and shriveled,
they kiss the grass and taste the soil.

.i only wrote this to write... it's never about drinking for drinking per se, or to entertain "thinking"... for the first time in 4 months i took my usual night-time walk... i wanted to precursor spring... to fill the air with perfumes - so i washed myself - applied the deodrant... the almond cream, i trimmed my ***** hairs... i oiled my beard... i applied coconut cream to my face - a mango infused balm to the hands - deodrant to the feet - i left the house imitating a magnolia bush... or all that *** i get up to come the nights of yesteryear when spring finally comes and all the trumpets are alight with the wind rustling them and ushering our the scents...

at some point in my drinking:
i feel the puppet strings loosen -
and i arrive at a kuru dance spectacular -
it's hardly a dance:
it's more akin to a gimmick -
more: akin to sharpening a misnomer
on the stone-grinding-the-never-to-be-used-blade
of a synonym: blockage...
****... always with the blockage -
i can't really be making excuses:

does this even resemble a paragraph?!
once upon a time; perhaps -
but even now, without rhyme without
sparrow without a horizon
of the climbing sun -
above a horizon of mountains
of Macedonia in the cleft of a valley -
just pristine rising -
on the plateau of: where
sea fiddles with the sky and vice versa...

of a language best leftover to
a hangover of: much better use of it...
should i be bound to being sober,
being the better attired man...
when i would break the tide along
with Xerxes whipping the sea
into submission -
better well attired: purposively tailored...

a crackling sound from a snippet
interlude of how a bow-tie was born
simultaneously with the sparrow -
how man was so borrow the donning
of the tie with a crane's elongated neck -

but again: how is "one" to not tire -
gender neutrality of pronoun usage -
began with the royals - ends with the royals:
the crown is not even upon by head
and yet: this expectation's toll...

one "thing" to call it a poetic metaphor...
another to call it...
a psychiatric: hush hush: invite the broom!
it's oh so tiresome...
tiresome to have to want of this world...
nothing more than a transitional
escapade...
this life that needs a mortgage...
however taxed or not taxed...
with insurance fail-safe investments...

i see a sun... i call it...
the Switz take on euthanasia...
and i'm very much a fan of this:
when one, simply, becomes, tired...
and one can tire very easily...

i sometimes read the poetryfoundation.org
editorial spew...
at least they forget custard and
never, oh never never:
start the show off with fudge packing...
the ballerina breaks a leg...
a crescendo of sound makes it into
an orchestra of a waterfall -
the echo shouted into a cave...
learns of the vampiric inability to see
a mirror reflection...
the echo begins to learn to become silent...
the image is no longer seen,
the echo will never be heard...

the ice-sharpnel in the eye -
the cave has learned to glutton the would be echo...
gobble gobble it down it must....
it will not regurgitate any fleeting sound back...
and a day will come when
a man will start to philia - not love...
more: befriend his own shadow...
because it's not that beauty fades...
by that (circumstance)
there was always that interlude
of tampered with inflated beauty...
otherwise no delusion:
it was "fate" that it would happen...

and that will not stand
on anything but stilts riddled
with foundations made of sand...

an old woman's skin like creases
of forever folding paper -
but never quiet an art of origami -
more like creases - scrunches -
how an inflated ballon filled with
a dead body feels like
in dio and carbon dance -
then dipped into liquid nitrogen
will eventually look like -

like an onion dipped in the same liquid -
later picked up and smashed lazily...

what am i supposed to see...
something akin to Postnik Yakovlev's
or Ivan Barma's eyes were not gauged
out by Tsar Ivan:
dropping dogs from high-buildings
was a "thing"... st. basil's was also the last
sight of beauty before the moon allowed
her full blossom of *****...
or before the light scortched the eyes
into a fizzling out fiddle of
not lasting expectation: as ever...
this epitaph anticipation...

casual language: non-narrative...
no character study....
pork chops and a date with the halal
butcher... since the kosher one
"sort of"... "forgot"...
catching the tide of the "white flight" from
London...

absolutely no appreciation for
greek orthodox cenobite chants...
perhaps it's now wonder...
yugoslavia... how it didn't dissolve
peacefuly akin to the gorbachev plan...
because the serbs went sword for sword
with the muslims of the balkans...
and what not...

no... this is not poetryfoundation.org
type of poetry...
white is allocated to... what?
english? french?
i see the root of the argument...
in russia... it looks very much
termite infested: próchno!
which one would call: it's not driftwood...
it's spongewood... sinkwood...

but i have to thank the russians...
i need it!
it will not simply be: pleaSure...
it would be as simple if the anglo-ßaß
interchange were to happen...
but even then!
ж = ž = ż = rz...

you have these signs in your language:
but it's almost... like you can't...
rather than don't want to use them!
i need the russians' 'elping 'and...

с = s = ç

(х) - lo(ch) - i call it the drill -
oh is no och, faye dunn!
what's new?

no...

   ц (cy - niet ka ka)
c'erp...

ч contra х...
č / ч 'asem...

ж                         ш

                 щ

                 šč (,) that's added to the š'
is also a szczekam: i bark...

either these are the leftovers -
or these be the crumbs...

ж = ż = rz...
and therefore? depending which language...
caron r (ř) or caron z (ž) = ж...

it's very much unlike hiding a vowel...
as the hebrews do...

but i can only thank the russian encoding
of allowing me to stress
the difference between C and K in english...
greek is dead to ditto...

not quiet a с - or... cedilla attached - i.e. s...
certainly not a к...
i'm pretty sure the greeks have their:
phi and theta - psi and chi...

pivot letters from russian:

ц: plaцki - cakes -
ч: płaч - crying...
    velsh: pwaach...
х: хolera - cholera - c'olera -
otherwise: not latch but loch nessie...
ж: pleaßure...
   or... żart... but that does depend on
the caron... žart...
and half of the caron?
       źrenica - pupilla... pupil...

back toward:

ш + ч = щ...
i too was waiting for the following equation:

ш + ц = щ...
but no...

let's not discuss the variations
of й, у, ъ, ь, ю or я...

am i not entertaining a language i will not learn
to a level of conversation?
most assuredly!

зъ in roman would almost look like
ж - well... ż or the caron eventuality...
these are hardly shortcuts...

cheap - pointers...
shameless office-hours... nothing but b & w
printing - and making coffee for
the muggers of hours -

a break from solving a sudoku...
back into looking at russian -
oh... just the language... no painting needs
to be summoned...
although...

at the royal academy of arts...
when i was skipping lectures at U.C.L.
i spotted this eye-pleasure
in flesh and blood and oil and brush strokes...
and how it towered over me...

PHILIPP MALYAVIN
peasant woman dancing...
nothing exactly compares to seeing this
painting in real life -
hell - the mona lisa is...
a bit like a nail-clipping...
compared to growing your hair long
and then shaving it...

beauty or technicality...
if the royal academy of arts...
would showcase the bullfight by pyotr
konchalovsky -
what's this poem this poem this isn't
a poem this poo'em?

i lament the non-existence of diacritical
markers in the english lounging-attache -
the lazy tongue that thought...
i'm not willing to play with anagrams...
i am not a fan of anagrams -
every other language game to escape
learning a second language...
crossword puzzles -
to stick to the monolingual enterprise...

thankfully for some they were born
into english: sell that talking point in scandinavia
or belgium, or the netherlands...
somewhat germany, somewhat poland...
the tourists' lingo or...
where those movies come from...

why wouldn't i look at russian letters?
a fond break-away from any sudoku -
but only via russian can a distinction be made
when... some random english native
sees a suffix -cki...
-цки...

no: no amount of cyst or garcons or whatever
would ever prepare anyone for...
ч or... well (ch)atter... but not for the piquant...
dumać: to muse...

my mother tongue my affair it seems...
well... there's that...
or there's the netizen language -
or any portmanteau language in general -
but never to truly mind the hieroglyphics
of :) -

one lion roars - another lion yawns...
this most certainly sounds better in german...
eins löwe brüllt - ein anderes gähnt -
bad german is worse than no german;
at least bad german satisfies my basic fetish:
the per se.

it's all ******* tina turner at this point! or? we need not education... cougar middle-aged women, tiger mums... eating filfth of marine scavangers that ***** are... you wash your mouth, before telling me that certain words are filfth... you stop the oral ***, and let me speak the word, ****! i still prefer the tina turner version of events, rather than the pink floyd reality... where journalists are worse than teachers of the english language in school... mother... *******! condescending half-*****! apologies, for what? the bbq? so why are teachers in schools disrepected? so why should journalist, not be also?

you **** to the left
   (shaking your to the left)
or...
   you **** to the right
  (shaking your empty hand
to the right)
  you push the elevator button
to go up...
  or you push the elevator
button to go down...

   who's winning? who's losing?
the ******* ovaries?

       and it is all about tina turner
right now...
  is it me, but when comparing
english accents, australian
   sounds rather, posh,
when tailored against american?

god, i love that accent...
       canadian?
    because of quebec, it doesn't count
as even remotely english...

but the didgeridoo
           wonga-wonga-****-****?
all i heard is that perth is so far removed
that sydney so further than dziakarta
   (jakarta)...
               tina ******* turner...

a building is burning, a colt comes into
the discussion, the tower-block
   is gushing out suffocating smoke
                     in west london...
     i'm guessing about 1000 people have
been bbq'd...    and all the journalist
keeps saying:
   apologies for the rude language,
oh, i have to apologise for the rude language...
  
                 you ******* kidding me, right?
stop, trying, to, be, my, english, teacher!
   over 1000 people were scortched
in that tower-blow, and you're actually
worried about me using the word ****?!
    you have to be kidding me...
really...
                     and so: the slow death of
20th century media...
                        socialism two-point-oh;
if they're not panicking,
   i really don't know why they're still
a credible journalistic outlet;
i.e. considering themselves as such.

would you believe it,
but up until very "recently"...
prince was the most
protected by copyright
incentives that couldn't
match anyone...
wanted to watch
   a partyman video:
good luck...
              raspberry beret?
you'd be lucky
with a elevator muzak
"replacement"...
         i guess...
death really does free you
from, all, those,
mundane, constraints....
prince was nowhere
to be found...
sure sure, i'll stream,
then save up,
and, esp. now,
given i own a gramaphone,
sure, i'll buy the vinyl...
but please let me
play the tease...
          what else is made
available on the current,
high-street?
shoes stores,
  gaming stores...
      mobile phone stores...
guess you can't
"napster" the gaming
industry....
   pacman no no...
super mario bros.
double no no...
and it still feels eerie
walking into a supermarket,
when there's
michael jackson playing
in the background...
i was never really a fan...
paedo-up...
  paedo-down...
thank god i bought
the greatest hits
        on 80s silver lining
of a...
does anyone doing
the make-over
to a walkman with
mini-disc players?
           shambles... utter shambles...
well...
why wouldn't it be a vulture
fest whether in journalism
of the critics' shambles
sub-parrot in the whole
medium (of journalism)?
eh music is music is music
isn't some sort of
    a kama sutra "eventuality"...
***: it either happens,
or it... doesn't...
          rough tier around
the prostitutes...
      but when you know you've hit
"home"...
  that scar on your right shoulder
blade?
becomes a tattoo of a dragon
on the right shoulder blade of
the girl you just did it too...
i quiet like when
people elevate the medium
of cipher language,
  to imply where you've been...
and where they
take to make a memory of you
in something transcending
a mere, current,
******* of a (worth of a)
               photograph...
that's nice...
           i like that...
          
revision: it really doesn't count
if you're the person taking
the photograph...
but sure as **** it matters,
when someone takes
a photograph of you...
but given the current climate:
that's going to be, a "slightly",
rare event...

i still keep focusing on "that"
one point of interest /
  historical revisionism...
i.e.: what if...
           men learned to ride
bulls instead of horses,
into a charge?
  what if bulls were elevated
from their domestication
privilege status,
beyond the status of horses?

             i mean...
an army having abled itself
in saddling
a bull rather than a horse?
   i would love to go to that
sort of post-mortem cinema
where other avenues of history
could be screened...

what? hannibal and the (
****... the word just escaped
my mind...
waiting game... "too much"
is going on...
it's related to snails...
trunks, ivory...
       ****... what's that word...)

....................
..................................
ah!                        elephants!

fame...
such an elusive term...
it implies finding
an appeal outside
of the niche audience...

                 and we all know how
that ends up "looking"...
don't we?
               a canopy of ghosts
and greyish mob
               auxiliaries...

           thus said:
to every man who is bound
to finding "something",
he rarely finds it,
tabloid wisdom over 'ere
had to find a coping mechanism
for being forever "undermined"
while sifting through
late 20th century nostalgia...
but, not really
  (the nostalgia bit)...

              came as easily as
remembering black girls
back in school,
      uncurling their sun scortched
twirly locks applying
   vaseline to smooth out
a cow-lick  'air-do.

volume 15 on the local
proceedings to the rekindling 1980s...

away from utilißing headphones,

choice of constrictive soap
opera of the "desire" for space...

incubus' seminal (3rd adjective
                   "concern")
   morning view album:

battery low, i need to resort
to familiar scents of my
mother's kitchen,

volume on par with the concept
of 15,
    and there's a warm fire brewing,
incubator tactics,
like taking care of a premature
baby (which,
somehow isn't a foetus) feels
like...
  
                 crows in mexico?
storks in poland...
  why is it that storks only migrate
north to settle in poland,
as the common "myth" goes...
storks only fly north to mate
in poland...

                   as a pollack:
that's "almost" uncomfortable to state...
should be doing acid
sort of moment,
later beefing it up in a gym...
getting the bulge and the dumb
new jersey blonde scenario...

              volume at 15, headphones
out, and i'm thinking about
cushions, walls, and the surrealism
of not imploding with headphones
in the mobile arena of society...
sunglasses...
                and...

girls that cut themselves...
    one "advice" i can give...
if any...
                     heat up an inch of metal,
whether scissors or fork,
or blade,
   and then press it against your
skin and: surd the event...
allow no sparrow jitters to take hold
of your tongue...

    a bulimic man?
strange, isn't it?
as ever, in america: the double
affirmative: is it not it, it?

         i remember goffing down
sweets from, when lidl was "cheap"
and frowned upon by the british
public...
      but not doing
the *trinity gesture" down
down the throat to regurgitate
bulks, and bulks of the *******...

a reverse of donning the niqab:
peering eyes society,
c.c.t.v.
            britannia...
   and everyone on the coast
didn't mind it, given they were still
fed oranges of the north sea:
with the fruits of the sea in
terms of, the french colloquialy
term mollusks...

       something on the edges of
britain (esp. dover) left me feeling
a complete sense of alienation...
and no matter what competitive
commentator tells me:
  
       that sort of ****?
                      sticks to you, like a tattoo.
it's more than a mere tattoo...
it's a map reading exercise
reflective of the thought mapping
of encompassing a "process"
of individuation...

                     asylum, no asylum,
asylum,
                        no british raj...
asylum,                no asylum...
    chemo-castration of males
using anti-depressant drugs?
                    no america.

butterflies outside my window,
flies crowding a punk scene
into my room...

                        no "summer"...
no scortched grass,
                   no yacht...
  and bongo bongo clubbing
                  from pseudo-mussolini....
cheese-seuz!
             a bit like watching
a retired, and subsequently *******,
russian acrobat!

oh yes, but it's not: how much you
weigh, but the mass...

        so... how can you explain to
me volume 15...
  
             as a depth of noise being
regulated to the instance of
the quality, and translation of
15...

    bypassing the frivolity of
             secondly explaining decibels?

*******... whales' mating call
    to replicate sonar for submarines?!
to hone:
   and replicate (0, 0, 0) genesis
                                   coordinates?!

once a denier, twice the liar,
twice the liar, thrice the "intelligence" officer,
or "shadow" lawyer...

with a concern for a revision of:
music occupying space,
rather than "time",
   at close proximity of my cranium...

what a bollocking!
             a ******* party sentence
to take to riot!
                            or lounge!

i should do this more often: pop me head-fly
into the spider's web of "free flowing information"...
just hearing the nationalists
is enough to pickle me...
      europe is... england... france...
                         germany... italy...
                          there's hardly anything concerning
spain... if...
     and geographically speaking:
                  the rest has drowned in the iron sea
east and south of the vistula river...
wound-up monkey-and-drum toy...
         can you be considered a native speaker...
when... you hijacked the language aged 8
and... started speaking it...
in what the natives would take 8 years to speak?
is it like the age of consensual ***?
i mean: i was jerking off aged 7...
                             speaking a english circa 8...
native... what if i did a crash-course from
my own essence... to absorb something?
           my my to mind: "europe"...
                           but of course this old envy of
russia...
                         this old envy of russia...
native: born... and the 1st / 2nd generation immigrants
cite: and bred...
well the born: perhaps... and the bred:
that's also a tad bit: perhaps...
        i am just regurgitating the shackles
of a soap prison...
                                  oh hell: should i still mind
everyone who only cites Orwell...
doesn't bother with Huxley: no real enough
i am led to believe...
too much science... not enough:
sociology - the readily available "science"
with words as true designating vectors of / for
observation...
no.... i don't think i'll be coming back for
"air" any time soon...
    too much Orwell that's read like a bible...
it stopped being funny...
it stopped being worthwhile to "tap into the source"...
i'm very much in minding an appreciation
for Dickens... i can actually say...
Shakespeare can be in the canon...
but... Shakespeare doesn't have to be in the canon...
all the modern poets can be worthwhile
instead... as long as... Dickens can replace...
a Charlotte Brontë in the prose section:
cross-my-heart twice and tie my lips into
a cocarde / rosette of what's
           otherwise designated for shoelaces...
native is: not born...
     what about self-******?
            how about: self-inbreeding?
             oh god forbid i'd come into contact
with the reasoning: of borrowing peers...
    and then returning to my shadowy-relatives...
as i: being the shadowy-"relative" myself...
and then back toward my peers...
after a while... what peers?!
         the case for full-integration would be
settled if you were to forget your mother tongue...
altogether! and perhaps learn some french...
how about i'd much prefer some...
deutschezunge?
  why? well... the grammatical structure of
french is very much akin to polish...
but i forgot all grammar of the mutterzunge
when acquiring this host-parasite...
         and... well the grammatical structure
of german is very much: english...
    how about i learn french after i've learned
german and swedish?
****... nope! no can do!
the masters of pedagogy know a 100m spring
from a 110m hurdle race...
eh... if learning a language is only about
the lexicon: the baggge of nouns...
nouns are easy... can sometimes by loaned...
but no one tells you when you're 8...
circa e.g.: i was here in english and german...
but, again circa: here, i was...
it's the most circa archaic example...
i don't have the time to pour minutes of attention
on a correct: sharpening of the misnomer:
if in use...
           no... i'm not too fond of reading Orwell
like a bible... it's not like:
homage to catalonia or...
   down and out in paris and london...
                 perhaps i'll get to that...
         when i come across a tale of two cities...
it's comparable to that time i went to
the Cheltenham Literary festival...
booked a lecture on 'ookovski...
     walked out after 15 minutes...
                    because i just started my pint of
guinness and i wasn't in a hurry:
i've heard all of this before!
      "heard" i've read all of these anecdotes!
                         - could i claim to be fond of my
"brothers" and "sisters"...
            do only the english speaking émigré
have a brotherhood and a sisterhood solidarity
abroad?
      i don't know... if a quarter of the world
is yours...
i guess you can't really be an emigrant...
you must be an expatriate...
   doesn't work the other way round:
immigrant... invader...
this language of coming and going...
there's no expatriate concept...
there's the: "in exile"... which... ha... my "fellow"
countrymen?
             a real patchwork of Somme
when or when not using the: in vogue words...
needs?! who has needs of this sort of:
need for consolidation...
                 i'm just pedantic and i'm seeing
the double-standard nuance...
                belly-button boys already know that
they're the cream of the crop in Kenya though...
it's like drilling into diamond
with a copper drill...
         you'd sooner hear a penguin bark...
this is enough... i'd not going to pickle over this...
there's a Dickens tomorrow!
i better stay there... and thank god i'm reading
an 19th century edition of this book...
the ninth gate sort of feel to it...
it's almost like reading a satanic work...
   given the numbers of years...
since this book was last read...
   i am actually giving this book my body...
i'm airing it...
i want this... artifact of mid 19th century
workmanship... to be aired...
with all the **** stink **** and perfume of
the coming to mid-21st century...
                unlike a wine...
          oh no... this is much more than wine...
a wine is uncorked: c'est la vie!
        this standard edition...
         the gresham publishing company -
34 & 35 southhampton street strand london...
if... given the right musing to scribble such:
*******... but by tomorrow... a return to?
do i really need to give myself a sense of...
the allure of horror and a distant harrowing?
a book is not a piece of furniture...
when reading i'm inhaling scents from...
this sarcophagus... being given as a present...
and it was not read...
     the binding only gives way to my hands...
it was given... passed down...
from a relative that... had some sort of
hierarhical position in the Indian Raj...
                            it's not a wine: it's not some
c'est la vie: as alluded to already...
poetry... b'ah... give me the Dickensian paragraph!
and i'll show you the devil turn into a cat...
purr-n-curl into a ball of wool by the fireplace...
with a smile... as **** sweet as...
     if the ghost of a pig would be ever inclined
to agree: i... better be... scortched on a barbie...
with a smile... as **** sweet as...
the sort of blocks of fudge sold on the royal mile...
edinburgh...
      a Dickensian paragraph:
or a Shakespearian sonnet... ah ha ha ha ha!
that's... a comparison?
that's like saying: the haiku is a very european
invention... when there's the prose-poetry
of horace!
                           and now work into all of this:
what i worked when writing it...
     the ninth gate ost (wolciech kilar)...
             just a little bit of salt & pepper detail:
to mind...
                                this europe of the nationalists...
it's only... a quarter of a working brain...
but of course: these are the...
          meisterklasse folk: they kept the italians
in the picture: for being the 6 nation's punching bag
good sports...
but as for the greeks?
to the P(ortugal)
            i (tally)
            G (those sons of *******!)
           S (pain)...              comes to mind...
the kingdom of the vandals... in northern africa...
or... the outbreeding ****** via
the saracens on sicily... etc.               etc.
but!                  democracy still needs to be... cited!
a europe from the megaphone of:
    talk of europe: is it... a continent?
              talk of foreign affairs: already one's own...
talk of borders...
ah yes... fear of the mountains not being: enough...
it would take either fire!
or the seas! to... come up with... a top hat
a tux and walking stick...
but no accomplished: pianist-composer!

   what are these alternatives?
           - das Inselbewohner konto
          - der Inselbewohner konto
           - die Inselbewohner konto...
ah... then... the everyman ritual problem...
how does english and german...
consolidate: the definite article (the)
   with the adverb (there)...
                      that's implicit of: being a tease...
because the alternative is...
    (the islanders' account) -
               ah... but that's plural... -wohner...
but somehow not:
                                 inselbewohNERS...
rubric of grammatical nuance + details...
a complete mood bog...

   the original title: will remain so...
i have to intentions to complete this detour!
in the reflexive: the reflection is stashed
      encompasses yesterday...
for the title... at least...
                 an islander's account...
      the account of an islander...
   die / der / das....            konto...
           von ein inselboweh(n)er.... cf. karl homann /
andrea suchanek:
die inselbewohner lernen sie als einen
vertrauenswürdigen mitmenschen....
                       of the female folk:
                         inselbewohner(in) - minor, pedantic
details... worthy of any index known to man...
or any cf. thereby to be appropriated...
for no apparent conclusion or...
a wizened hair to be: shared among the populace...

as ever: i tell myself enough...
unlike reading... it is never enough...
                 there's this fetish... once you write enough
of english: of...  englischschrapnell...
you start to... looking for... the älterebindung!
from where: the anglo-sächsisch?
                       sächsisch: die nachbar zu die thüringer?
it can only come naturally...
             after all the empire building...
one perhaps should look... to the root and origin
of the sprout?

enough! tomorrow with the sparrows...
a morning...
nothing but:
these words these nails: this page a coffin!

.i count alright... taking cerberus for a walk: my shadow, a beer and some music; thank god i don't own a car and i can walk with headphone cushions in my ears - not stuck in some sardine canned heat... headphones and walking until the legs do the walking, the heart does the beating rhythm and the mind... forgets itself with any origins of a prefixed self-, or any other constable lieutenant colonel or a major major - of pop self-help cries-for-a-guru pseuchology...

it really has been a music-lover's gehenna...
imagine:
not having an mp3 - attached to your frame
of body - for four months walking
the street without music -
esp. at night -
four months - until i finally succumbed
and had someone buy me a steal of
a 16GB supereye M3 for 20 quid...
once more... magic returned...
if only those cars made the sound of horse hooves
on cobblestones -
mind you: there are no chirping sounds of
birds come night - sometimes the barking
dog - but that's truly rare on the more frequented
streets...
because i had this routine -
3 beers approx. 1 hour and catching a 2 mile
radius... circa...
something to get me away from the current
soap-opera trash of youtube central...
and again the magic... this unspectacular poo'em
for one...
but a walk down a subway beneath the eastern
avenue...
a crime scene - on my way to the petrol station
for the third beer -
a crime scene... an unopened can of baked beans
in tomato sauce...
and a book... with blood over it...
the miracle on the river kwai -
by ernest gordon - the synopsis still reads...
since 1955 has been dean of the chapel of princeton
university. he is married, with a son and daughter.
- and all it was a life content - a lesson in -
this is hardly venice - this is hardly paris -
this is hardly a place of grand expectations -
which also implies that one can bloom, blossom
and ride a white tiger to the zenith -
and no one will interrupt anyone -
because life is best served as a simple
carbonara... when it needs to be fancy...
hell... it can be...
20 quid... and a former love of mine... missing
for over 4 months...
beer, shadow and music... and the night...
why shadow?
i found myself admiring the shadow whenever
i took a walk at night...
the anti-narcissus focus point -
through beer and music on headphones into
the mix... and a scene like that in the subway...
i'm a terrible tourist...
sometimes i go places and forget to send
postcards... or take photographs...
i'm merely there to absorb a sensation...
the lost: almost art - of having enough patience
for someone to take a photograph
of you without you asking for one -
while in the vicinity of home -
eyes darting from my own shadow -
the moon - less the trees and more when
my shadow passes and fuses itself with
the shadows of these trees -
walking on the pavement while also sliding across
walls - enlarging - shrinking under
the streetlamps -
and there's only the ability to glug,
walk and listen: or rather not listen -
as i almost would have wasted the 30 quid on
an oeuvre of kenneth koch...
that's 20 quid on a new mp3 player...
and 10 quid on a new pair of shoes...
the concept of money:
well... if i ever sink into a state of having to write
cliche rhymes - on thank you notes,
on greeting cards...
on... the dross and drool of where words sometimes
go to: look hippopotamus ugly -
scortched and on holiday - mud dripping -
when words do that: to frighten the pelicans.

.out comes the golden serpent - with hands of dripping copper and honey... sprinkling kosher salt wherever he goes; of course prior to: mr. aenemia and vamp. goes through a rotten stage of: scortched porky pink... it does take a day or two... for the suntan to even itself out.

the joy from a well exerted body
with paid debt for a day's worth
of life...
    laying the foundation of a new shed...
tossing a tonne of gravel...
mixing cement like bread dough:
3:1 parts - sand:cement...
and some water...
        to the consistency of ****** dough...
come the sunset and the skull's
moondance...
   the warming sensation of a newly
acquired suntan: above the elbow:
having rolled up the t-shirt "sleeves":
do i could get that:
mr. romania primark buff look...
rather than a farmer's suntan below
the elbows...
                 as for the mind...
currently pickling in some bourbon...
relaxing...
     not agitating any grand
exploration - come to think of it...
an honest's day of labour:
   of work that can be done -
    all work... beside those sadistic
arbeit macht frei labours...
or work for competition...
work in the fresh air...
      to plough the field...
         to build a house... to set
a foundation for a shed...
to wait for tomorrow... and put
the actual shed up...
                 if in england the house
is a castle:
why so few leave it for the labyrinth
of the garden?
claustophilic chickens...
hardly a castle: more
like a t.v.-zombie
                        chickenshack...
no point being "smart" about it...
there's enough grace in just
being grateful...
for honestly paying the debt for
a day's worth of life:
                to whatever god or devil;
well... i'm going to hardly
pay homage to the sun...
       that said... so much
                 for the heliocentric
"revolution"...
           what has changed?
i don't think much...
the world still goes on in its usual
geocentric theatre mandate...
          who needs to look for aliens
"elsewhere" in that copernican "n.e.w.s."
of aimless direction...
when the aliens are: thankfully!
tiny creepie-crawlies...
                       right here now:
scuttling along to find rotten wood,
shade and the confines of hades...
perhaps... sometime this week...
i'll pay homage to that route i walked
once before... beginning from...
lower bedfords rd (through bedfords park)
out on broxhill road...
then through B175... at pinewood road
(across from orange tree pub)...
through havering county park...
across the river Rom...
and into hainault forest county park...
popping out at A1112... and then either walking
back to collier row... or getting the bus
back...
    one day... this homage will
have to be paid.... but not tomorrow...
some other... sunny day;
so much for the over-inflated
               value of love and ***...
when manual labour in fresh air...
and taking... a pretty long *******
walk will do... just about as much.

we come, withered to the bone...
and some bon jovi mingling with a bust of nirvana...
hardly to become the beatles
and the clash
                          loop holes...
for all the people burdened with ample reasons:
to quest for dust...
and the fathomability of the scortched egg...
we are to heave the tomb of stone...
better in german...

they might make a spaniard blush...
"they": that incubating few:
throng...

      ist alles!
   hier...
                   grab von stein...
grave of stone...
hier: mein jetzt...
   herz von murmeln...

told to dig....told to dig...
to have nothing more than
a god to limp calling "it" dog....
leine und rinde!

i live: as the sanctity
of being the baron of my limbs...
this hunched... limping...
excess is my conan... "reprive"...

thus come:
the gallows' yield of laughs...
which are none: to make count of!