.wow, i never thought it would ever be possible,
i'm sorry, i have no empathy for these youtuber "creators",
any idiot can regurgitate the news,
venture into vulture journalism,
  then again: gone are the days of closely associated
with people like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein...
they are really gone: what the hell was gamer-gate
compared to watergate? gate after gate,
and all i'm hearing is response videos,
it should have never come to this,
whereby journalists are as untrustworthy as politicians,
and of what remains, come the saturday and
the sunday editions, when the petty bourgeoisie
come out of the woodworks of a week,
album reviews, book reviews, t.v. reviews,
restaurant reviews: real, real journalism,
all the grit you'd expect from a warzone...
           journalists forgot they were not kindred spirits
of politicians: but immediacy historians...
the front-line history chroniclers...
i find... these days, esp. these days...
    you know why i like heidegger so much,
and forget the fact that he joined the **** party?
in 1938 he was already disillusioned by it...
so the ad homine fallacy bites the dust...
   even a **** deservers a redemption...
but i find that these days, of all days...
   man, as a historiological creature has to bow
before the unshakeable facets of the biological man,
esp. in the english speaking world...
    in terms of history and biology:
     history has all the fun stories,
and a sensible "concern" for time,
   well... if not "concern" then at least a bearbable
time-frame...
                  after all, i am the one who said:
all the great deserts of the world,
akin to sahara? they were once great
mountain ranges... you already know where
to look between a mountain range akin to the alps
and a desert... bound to h'america...
   monument valley: utah...
  a mountain becomes a rock after a while...
while the desert expands...
    ayers rock (uluru)... but monument valley (utah)
is a transition period between a mountain range
and a desert, if we're going to stand outside
of all space and time, and look back in...
we have plenty of time to catch-up on...
           just like i believe that black holes
are actually 2-dimensional objects:
   that spin really fast, giving an impression
of them being 3-dimensional objects:
as usually represented by a gravity dip associated
with them pulling matter into themselves...
i think that black holes are paradoxes...
since how can a 2-dimensional object
actually exist in a 3-dimensional space?
   that depends on the size of the "3-dimensional"
object / space... the universe is a medium,
it's defined as a "space" but to me...
      it's beyond space... it's only space on the grounds
of isolated time, 365 days,
the time and space it takes for the earth
to orbit the sun... which is an isolated example,
outside? well: there's atmosphere on earth,
outside? vacuum!
who's going to prove my theory wrong?
               not anyone in my lifetime -
besides the point with these youtube content
"creators": where credit is due, credit is due,
but once might have cared for their vulture
journalism... two old farts akin to felix (black pigeon
speaks) and sargon of akaad talking about how:
the youth are congregating to youtube to listen
to music: that's what i've always done...
  i discovered these youtube "creators" by accident,
i just wanted my jukebox back, man,
i wanted my algorithm back, my imprint back,
now that the devil's dozen scenario took hold
of the platform: 1 video playing, 12 back-ups...
and they're all the same, unrelated, *******...
        talk all you want, please, just give back
my algorithm imprint, where i can discover new music...
again... i never thought i'd see another
compilation video, 173 videos bound to one...
and, mind you... after finding about 6 googlewhacks
(googlewhack? when you use the sort of
language that provides you with only one search
result on the behemoth platform of billions
of results, 1 is grand, but 6? it's becoming too
predictable)...
                        so here's what i found
   (band - song):

wooly mammoth - mammoth bones / kyuss - space cadet,
rainbows are free - last supper / grand magus -
                                                mountain of power,
zed - lies / om - cremation chant I & II,
    smoke - hallucination / weird owl - white hidden fire,
orchid - son of misery / witch - seer,
               unida - you wish / black mountain - old fangs,
b.r.m.c. - ain't no easy way /
              jack daniels overdrive - ****** to death,
shrinebuilder - blind for all to see,
                   datura - mantra / the heavy eyes - voytek,
the machine - infinity / clutch - the regulator,
   colour haze - mountain / maligno - son of tlalocan,
dozer - twilight sleep / gomer pyle - albino rattlesnake,
blockback - dead mans blues / greenleaf - witchcraft tonight,
cactus jumper - right way / borracho - bloodsucker,
alabama thunderpussy - motor ready,
                    earthless - sonic power,
my brother the wind - death and beyond,
   zaphire oktalogue - carrion fly / siena root - reverberations,
unida - slaylina / pothead - toxic / sungrazer - mountain dusk,
   rotor - costa verde / blizaro - it's in the lighthouse,
planet of zeus - woke up dead,
     kongh - pushed beyond / ufomammut - smoke,
high on fire - to cross the bridge,
              the secret - bell of urgency,
      unida - wet pussycat / dozer - big sky theory,
cavity - chloride / brutus - swamp city blues,
the grand astoria - something wicked this way comes,
sasquatch - the judge / pharaoh overlord - skyline,
baby woodrose - love comes down / kamni - **** of satan,
lay with me - the flying eyes / cowboys & aliens  -
                                                out of control,
sons of otis - liquid jam / hainloose - recipe,
    ridge - rancho relaxo / bongripper - ****** sutherland,
skraeckoedland - cactus / grails - satori,
    lo-pan - chicken itza / five horse johnson - people's jam,
blind dog - don't ask me where i stand,
     wiht - orderic vitalis / hisko detria - nothing happens,
liquid sound company - leage for spiritual discovery lives,
   goatsnake - black cat bone / gandhi's gunn - rest of the sun,
the egocentrics - wave / propane propane - it's alright,
heliotropes - ribbons / mother mars - price you pay,
che - the knife / annimal machine - condenado,
   earth - tallahassee / the whirlings - delirio,
orchid - heretic / maeth - horse funeral,
siena root - rasayana / graveyard - longing,
           tia carrera - hell / hainloose - recipe,
      burner - five pills (and a bottle of whiskey),
dala sun - guilty for ****** / vulgaari - lie,
        slo burn - muezli / stonehelm - zombie apocalypse,
smallman - evolution / spiders - fraction,
         shakhtyor - e. jaspers / earthmass - lunar dawn,
evoke the lords - dregs / colour haze - silent,
     sutrah - el septimo viaje...
  

who are "these" people,
who: "supposedly" live for the future...
they always cite it,
as the one motivational
momentum of the present -
it's as if they've never seen
a bull itch the ground
with its front hoofs -
   imitating building up momentum
before a charge...
or how a slingshot,
or how a bow works...
   to these people,
the ******* sideways movement
of a bow against a violin...
sometimes...
      you do not retreat into
the past, to hide, to amount
to nostalgia...
     sometimes
the only reason for the reflexive
affirmation, confined to maxims
and aphorism, nay: even poems!
is to look back...
     to reap what was once
sowed, rather than sow blindly,
and reap: what no one wants
to reap...
    drunk? getting there...
       it felt so relaxing paying off
a 100 / 250 part of a debt
i owe her...
            while buying a russian
standard liter,
   asking for a 100 cash-back
of the supermarket cashier,
- the limit is 50,
   but if you buy something else,
i can give you another 50...
- oh... ok...
   so me went to and took a bottle
of shveedish cider...
   rekorderlig...
   mind you? the swedish,
what they perfected fermenting
better than what the the irish claim
to fame is?
    sorry... magners:
               irish? stick to the guinness...
(it's actually the only cerveza
i'd go into an english pub to
drink from the tap... bottled? canned?
not the same)...
     but with such swedish delights
such as the above mentioned,
  ålska and K  ö   nigsberg
                            *œ?
no competition... the suede(s) just
do one thing grand...
    cider...
- what was i talking about?
  ah... the "dreaded" past...
     the people who say:
  but you can't live out a life,
   holding onto a private past,
a memory...
    so... these other ******* were
allowed to implant a false
past, unrelated to me,
teaching me whether it was
Newton, or Leibniz who first
invented the infinitesimal calculus
method?
                i'm betting on Leibniz...
after all... he took the position
of a ******* librarian...
   and he wasn't buried with pomp
& circumstance at Westminster Abbey...
sometimes...
         one person can't have it all...
but if the education system
is a system that is indicative for
the erosion of memory, esp. private
matters... and juggernauts in
with these selective rubrics of science
and history...
fair enough the basic
implants: numerical arithmetic,
and lettering arithmetic -
    and then... lessons in mental
entertainment... when applied
           to menial labour...
memory is: supreme...
          i can't give my memory up...
that's what: killer proteins
eating the fat tissue of the brain
like starvation in reverse
        of a case of Alzheimer's?
memory is: cameo cinema -
    however distorted it might be,
although i beg to differ on
whether time per se,
  is not the better psychedelic
component
when coupled with memory -
esp. the cinematic aspect of memory...
there was never a "living" in
the past -
      there was a point about memory
to sharpen the edges of
    "dasein"... all speculation and
questions regarding consciousness,
as championed through
a chimpanzee's *** are somehow
pointless:
    given there's a higher tier of
conceptualization -
   working from dasein...
            hierjetzt -
      or in english?             presence...
- because why would i treat
a personal memory,
like some inorganic entity of
a schooling system,
under Catholic measures,
  that made it necessary to include
Pythagoras... but not Horace?
that's inorganic memory...
and unless i turn into some
inorganic entity -
   the organic aspect of my psyche:
my past, my cameo cinema?
   that's going to be a leech,
attached to me...
  and i'm not going to give it up,
just like... when i walk about
my door, and enter the england
that i know on the peripheries...
i'll speak the lingua franca -
     but with my privacy?
    you'd better cut my tongue off
before i stop speaking
my western slavic heritage...
    and it pains me...
when certain groups of immigrants...
don't know the POINT
where immigration becomes
insensible... self-lacerating...
           i once hated their approach...
now i just pity them...
anyone ****** can juggle
     two oranges rather than three...
p.s. old school cure for a cold?
forget the pills...
   glass of warm milk,
  an egg yolk,
     and a good scratch of butter...
  (on the rare occasion,
  milk infused with garlic)
mixed together...
before bedtime...
  if the ****** won't sweat out
the bacteria during the night...
     well... stick to the synthetics...
i'm pretty sure i know why i drink...
certainly not to: PARTY PARTY PARTY...
i always aim for
the one safety net of "pharmacology"...
ssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

p.s. so much for children loving their
parents...
        in vitro and the whole
m.g.m. debacle:
so, sweet little *******,
       no *******, no chance for your
for a quickie satellite launch date from
Tehran, under all the weight of
monotheism turned secular...
christianity: the only "monotheism"
with overt tinged of polytheism,
lutheran, baptist, catholic, orthodox...
just today i opened my door twice...
once to a confused curry house delivery man:
did you order some food:
i too replied with a confused look
and the word: huh?! no.
then a black woman with a a white ol' granny
came by with a leaflet...
the jehovah's witnesses were on my trail...
lucky of my grandfather,
   the profanity brigade of the hebrew name
i will not dare utter came by...

  and if you have lived a good enough life:
memory? memory beats hollywood
technicolour and CGI...
at least in the cinema of memory i always
get to play the cameo (role)...

oh i get the youtube creators:
   living with his parents... still. aged 33...
funny that i don't mind them,
since they're getting older they're settling
into their solispsism,
        annoying as ****, but i stand them,
thank god the protruding caduceus veins
on my phallus protected me from
a circumcision...
  i can ******* like a girl with a web-cam...
no scented candles:
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones...
the toilet, simultaneously masaging my ****
and prostate...

men were not exactly supposed to derive
pleasure from ***: they were,
supposed to give pleasure,
and in giving pleasure to one outlet,
they were subscribed to finding out what
best pleases them: ergo?
women would always derive more of
the people from *** than men would ever...
*** is not a story of bragging about
a harem... the woman lies flat...
the man pumps her...
after all... she is the one burdened
to carry a child, why wouldn't she be
the one deriving more pleasure from *** than
a man could ever?
72 virgins! ha ha!
   ah ha ha!
             what's the ratio?
   last time i checked... a 3 hole caravan...
of a woman's worth...
   mouth, ******, ****... and man?
only two points of entry, well...
"entry"...
                    seems that the tomatoe,
really is a fruit, but is treated like a vegetable
nontheless!
homosexuality in the 1960s...
william burroughs in Tangiers...
                    when Islam was quiet radical...

well... i cook, i clean...
                what are my other options of continuing
to write and living the ed gein "lifestyle",
i tried getting social housing in england,
but, i'm not a somali with two wives and a dozen
kids...
              rent, in london?
extortion...
                   housing shortage...
                 well there's me hating my parents,
the outside world just needs to see
an ed gein imitation...
               or there's me living off acorns
in the woods, or rummaging on the streets,
making the N25 bus from oxford st. to ilford
my own personal mobile hotel as a homeless
man in london...

   i think it's time to succumb to your
parents prejudices, if only for the jokes,
no point in making ethical high judgements
to fit into a zeitgeist narrative surrounding
yourself with people: you'd never eat a meal with...
that's how i define the highest form of respect:
if i'll eat with you: implies that i respect you...
i drink alone...
a high school fwend once thought he could
bribe me with his company,
that i "had to" drink with him...
      no... not really...
          i much prefer drinking by myself...
these days you're not expected to honour your
mother and your father,
i.e. make them proud...
               honour is a double-edged sword...
just don't be ashamed of having
a mother or a father...
not that hard: given western divorce rates...
i.v.f., frozen eggs... yadda yadda yadda...
lucky me in having went to university...
oh... really? so much cooler in a cosmopolitan
environment with your contemporary
flat-mates?
               get the picture?
                 paying rent while literally living
in a diguised cardboard box?
i can't help the fact that poetry doesn't pay...
that there are economic factors beyond
my control in play...
   maybe if i was the grandson of my parents,
born in england, and not elsewhere,
there would be some sort of + leverage...
for a bricks and mortar start-up...
plus... i hoard...
         books and music...
                     mind you:
neither of my parents spoke english as their
mother tongue...
  neither did i...
they didn't teach me this tongue:
i had to teach this language by myself:
for myself...
           aged 8: thrown into the deep end
of the pool: now swim ******, swim!

i just feel sorry for the immigrant parents
who gave birth to their children into the *****
of the land they immigrated to...

two days ago i found a heartbreak,
a romanian couple, with a child...
the father was stubborn in teach his daughter
his / her native sprechen...
romanian... but she was already speaking
perfect antithesis of accent kindergarten english...
and almost non-responsive to her tongue
alligned to her biology...
    clearly she was born in england,
but her parents were both romanian...
i've had that conundrum in my head
for a long time...
   what if i married an english girl...
and i was unable to teach my offspring
my native language,
what if i had to silence my native tongue,
"forget" it, or only speak it by myself,
via reading a book in western slavic?
what if the woman i married:
wouldn't see the benefits of bilingualism,
outside of the mainstream economic
mantra of ensuring your children
learn either german or mandarin or arabic?
that worried me...
          oh believe me, i enjoy my lapses
into english: since i am providing the groundwork...
but in the case of having offspring...
e.g. teaching them the western slavic tongue
so they could speak to their grandparents
(i.e. my parents)...
       even my grandparents lament
the scenarios when a woman would marry
an austrian... and she wouldn't teach
her children her native tongue,
and when the grandchildren would visit their
grandparents... they'd be speaking
a crude variation of braille, morse,
   sign-language: na migi...
               i know that my mother is alive
in me even under this veil of english...
because she's more than the womb,
the genitals of my conception, the breast fed off...
she's also the Atlas of my vocabulary
of the "hiding" tongue beneath this one...

i already knew the "game" was rigged from
the get-go... i've seen how one hindu woman
suffered being married to a scouser...
she never managed to pass on her language
to her children,
she bought a library, thinking her children
would succumb to learning: however poor
they might end up being...
but she was suffocated by the english
tongue of her husband...
and her children didn't express even the most
vague of desires to learn their mutterzunge...

that's what worried me to begin with,
marrying an english woman i was afraid
of the ignorance that someone bilingualism
was en route toward a psychiatrist disorder
i was diagnosed with: schizophrenia...
this anglophonic ignorance still scares me...
like: everyone is expected to speak the revisionist
globalist lingua franca: this anglo lingua...
if i didn't meet a bilingual / polyglot woman,
i'd return to rearing idiotic children...
anglo lingua was only supposed to be a middle-ground,
a "no man's land"...
             a language of trivial economic transfers...
a language primarily orientated around usage:
rather than an ethno-centric basis for "englishness"...
to **** with: god save the queen...
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
                 old scot dragoons': auld lang syne...
those where my forever anthems...
see...
        what gave birth to a jihadi john?
his mother "forgot", his father "forgot":
his "mother" forgot, his "father" forgot to speak
the "ancient" tongue...
there's a point to integration of the immigrant,
an immigrant is a forgetful creature,
an ever pleasing creature...
never to mind himself as an ex-pat...
you ****** forget your mutterzunge...
you'll be speaking in cockney accents
with broken affairs of arabic beheading people
for zombified reasons of grandeour!
*******...
          you, you: you are to blame!
you were so ashamed of your parents that you
delved on honoring them to the point
of thinking giving pride unto them was very
much akin as keeping shame away from
their girdle of the wedlock of your own existence!
death has not made your a martyr...
i guess you deserve those 72 mishaps,
those 72 annoying voices...
and i pray to god that you receive your reward!
i hope that among the 72 you will never find
a chance a repose to find your: self!

integration is one thing,
pandering to the "elites": plebs who think they
are kings among the plebs,
is quiet another...
plebs who go places and think english
is a universal tongue: just because
uncle sam says so...
of those i respect:

y cymraeg: pwy dal eu tafod...
an gàidhlig: cò fhathast bruidhinn an cuid teanga...
i nawet moim: co ma mówić
to nawet tyle: co znaczy tak niewiele!

there are boundaries... learn the customs
of the natives, but ensure you retain the customs
you were born with...
a child, born in a foreign land,
ought to ensure his parents teach him
the words to speak to his grand overseers...
complete immersion,
this cultural abortion,
this cutting of the umbilical chord
from: i have never met a people so
content at having been subjugated outside
the indian sub-continent,
cricket... for ****'s sake...
       as to demand other europeans
to treat them as superiors,
when sitting alongside an englishman...
****-bud-bud, the **** are you on about?!
once again: england has become the circus
for the grounding of what began
with engels and marx...
   wasn't communism born from
engels and marx observing english society?
sure... first experimented en masse in
mongolia... but its origins?

   so of course i had problems finding a suitable
mating partner... i was afraid that my nativ-zunge
would die a slow but solemn death...
that an english bridge would not consider
the worth of a bilingual child, or a polyglot,
or that she would repress the chance of my
"biological continuum nuance" to respond outside
of the anglo lingua refrain of: beside the english language?
there are quiet a few one might want to learn...

it's not easy being a first generation immigrant,
esp. if you moved aged 8, mute as a wolf
to a domesticated dog's barking...
but hey, no jihadi john in me...
           jihadi john should have been raised
bilingual... i wouldn't be the one speaking broken
tourist arabic while beheading someone...
jihadi john spoke tourist arabic...
the dichotomy of the mind to the biological
reality, beside the current, western,
"biological relativism" debate...
      clearly darwinism was "wrong"...
man is, these days, left with neither a biological
reality, nor a historical reality...
              but there is a historical reality:
but it's so knit-&-picky...
come on... philip augustus of the capetian
dynasty?
                 casimir III...
                        jeremi wiśniowiecki...
konrad I of masovia...
                           kuno von lichtenstein...
alles ist gott: und gott ist alles -
  gott mit, uns!

              mit eine leben wert leben:
    erinnerung ist die nur kino
             wert sehen eine film beim;

hell... could be worse:
   i might have translated some latin
of horace into pig-trough comfort food.

could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh

matt
did you get my reply? i hope you did, i had written approx. 5, and all of them deleted... i hope i allowed myself a justifiable response with this one:

how about solipsism? solipsism is an elevated term for autism, isn't it? me? personally? i love cats, but they have a tendency to become inexhaustive economists of curiosity... i wasn't implying autism as an insult, i was implying a more crude word, synonymous with solipsism, and there is no shame in that to begin with. i like cats, because i own two, and i'm most content, when i can allow myself the time, to allow them the same time, to be left alone. cat, solo... dog + man + tail waggling + throw a ball... i better post this reply before i allow this reply, to become deleted... with all the prior 5 that have been, and me, having to post the alternative, "revision".

i.e. i rather imagine autism to be in need of having an elevated status of being designated by the term: solipsism... how can i make myself elaborate? point being, i don't want to... i too am confined to a strict vocab. fixation for the purpose of expressing language, that mitigates, bypassing, shrapnel wording of: one category fits all, conjunction words, which, i find, I, to be akin to, when categorised as: AND to begin to confine oneself to, the subsequent rigor of nouns.

i hope this doesn't end, or begin as, an apology... by autistic i was imply solipsist, i wasn't implying the retrograde slur of ******... if there's any god, it's in the disinhibited self of the autist, readily plucked, by... no basis for either a selfish, or a selfless act... i'm over-wording this, but... point being... i needed to settle myself in a posit, above the current cultural norm of the troll... which has nothing to do with autism, or as i like to call it: solipsism, diminished to a slur of: automaton...

i hope you can make lite reading of this... i concede, i attempted to make more than necessary, and conciliatory scribbles... if in any way i redeemed myself, i hope you'll concede to entertaining, accepting my apology.

Jules  22h
My only issue was that your poem seemed to make Autism synonymous with stupid or any other derogatory term. However, seeing as that wasn’t how you meant it, I apologize. I’m a bit defensive as my brother has autism

Mateuš Conrad  22h
that's perfectly understandable, given the circumstances, i am hardly surprised... i'm still here if you want to continue past the initial shock-tactic of testing the waters with me, obviously we can change the subject and not stand, metaphorically: with knives pressed against each others' throats... there i was, thinking i'd reply diving into the subject matter for no, necessary clarification / added depth... but it's the least i can appreciate from your cordial response, as to, at least, appreciate a change in the subject matter, so that, both of us, can return to feeding off a sentiment of: being left, less, uncomfortable; which implies that i have to instigate the question to change the subject matter... hmm... speed-dating-esque trivia... movies, paintings, music... literature... ah... kind of blue, miles davis, my english teacher told me, that if anyone in the classroom didn't own this album by the age they were 30... there was something wrong with them... in my then paranoia, i bought the album, and now own it on vinyl... somehow... i find that there's something more wrong with me, owning it, than not owning it.

Jules  22h
Favorite movie- Mamma Mia, favorite painting- amazing piece by a local artist, music- currently obsessed with the Beatles, favorite book- We all fall down. I’m thoroughly impressed about how reasonable you are being given the circumstances, and after reading a few more of your poems, I can tell you are a good person

Mateuš Conrad  21h
oh come on... mamma mia?! and not something akin to west side story?! who's the local artist? i only access to a London base, and, that requires a networking schedule i'm not going to equip myself with; and i'm hardly surprised by how understanding you are of me, and i do wish to pay more compliments to you, but... i feel that that would overstate me taking liberty in me not incurring an over-simplified stance of my own liberty towards you... remember, i'm one person in writing against a blank, and another person to conjure forth a reply... against a canvas, that is a readied flesh of my own flesh, bone of my own bone, i can see the antagonist in the compounded state of, the sacrosanct state of lingo... i can be a ******* against a blank canvas, but, obviously, when i am to begin with a clarity of an addressee, i cannot consider staging a variation of something, inhospitable, as a Kandinsky-variation to suit myself... Jules, you can never become something akin i treat a blank sparring estate i perform in writing without, something you are already established with, concerns equivalent to my own predisposition being unchanllenged / or, rather, undistrubed. the beatles... i'm trying to find something of a vinyl collector's "beginner's luck"... i'm too into prog. rock music... EP album experiences, akin to: king crimson's debut: in the court of the crimson king... serves me right, for not getting into Mahler... or Eric Dolphy jazz... so i turned the blind eye, and moved toward pagan music... wardruna... hedningarna... in extremo... garmarna... faun... heilung... esp. the last... i have never wished to visit the Faroe Islands more, than, after listening to their music.

Jules  21h
Mammia Mia is my favorite almost solely because of the memories attached to it. You certainly are a unique person

Mateuš Conrad  21h
i agree, i'm a sucker for super trouper and money money money, i'm waiting for a Tina Turner musical, to be honest... don't worry, i've looked into some of your comment sections... i cannot alleviate the blatantly bogus comments that are worth nothing more than an immediacy to make antagonism... i can't, i wish i could, but.... it's either this variant of an outlet, or a punching bag... i'm as unique as you find me to be... but when i just see "demands to conform" to an otherwise unnatural behavior... i don't like behaving in a counter-cordial fashion... you understand me? if there's no need to be bogus, why begin to bother being so? i hope we can remain lodged into partial nuances... and continue this discussion, beside tomorrow, i.e. whenever you feel like to preserve it, which, i hope... you will strip away more of your anonymity... but even if that is to not be the case: i thank you for the compliments... but from having inspected the immediate comments... you are a most tender artifact worth double the inspection's curiosity with a shy eye... and until i take myself to rest, and slumber, i can only leave your with these words... i wish the world was more welcoming than i allow you to believe it to be. if you can ever forgive me, i can only hope you can, by bidding me a goodnight, and welcoming me back into the discussion, within the confines of a tomorrow.

Jules  20h
Goodnight, my hopefully future friend. Poetry is definitely one of the best outlets. I definitely understand that aspect of you

Mateuš Conrad  20h
i hope to entertain you here, once more, and all the future that can be shared between the both of us. let me see you tomorrow, and scrap a beginning of a conversation with you, once more toward a focus of a beginning... and see how many minutes this allows us to entertain an amnesia of: beginning with today... how about that? i'll take to sleep, and hope, to grin... i actually re-read what i wrote: and figured... if i was being all-too despotic in securing pedantry... but then... if you took to complimenting me, i have to compliment you: tender soul... scouting the merger of sight and the hybrid coast... tender petal... why not? who is to obstruct me telling you this? lever... beside the said and into what's thought... tender petal... what a Scouser would call pet, i'd call petal... or... heavily implied: stagnant Bismarck stipend... if it be too much to ask... write me more than under the scrutiny of below the already given minus, of the 10 sentences. come at me as a punching bag... just as an experiment... i want to be the new vanguard... experiment with being uninhibited.

Jules  19h
Even the way you talk is extremely poetic. I appreciate how you took the time to try to talk everything out to prevent us from having any bad blood between, and I see know that you didn’t mean any harm from what you said. Thank you for being so kind about it all. I sincerely hope we can pick up this conversation again tomorrow as I feel we are on the road to a promising friendship. I’d be happy to write more per text, but for the sake of experimentation, I’m intrigued to see if you could try to talk in a little less of a formal dialect

Mateuš Conrad  1h
trying to bypass a formal dialect will be hard, as we're too fresh into our patchwork of setting boundaries, rigid as that might sound, and the current climate, to me, you're a slab of marble, not a statue. this sort of friendship, you're talking about, requires us to keep a modest concern for language, which, awfully, is riddled with diatribe excerpts... how we will transcend this, is, well, concerned with both of us to decide... i'm starting to entertain the fact that you have an autistic brother, since i'm learning to be panicy-picky with my language... i too had an ultra-autistic "friend" back in high-school... and i would constantly retrieve a blank-state response from him, i.e. i was looking at less a person, and more: a labyrinth. how i'll transition into a more informal use of language, i'm unsure how that will take place, Jules, we can't exactly share experiences, we can only avast ourselves, on what will pursue its own noumenon characteristics of stated language. at present, we only share a commonality of language, i'm bewildered by stating something informal... i wish i could, but i'm only allowed an "aggrieved" presence to your wish for: informality, slang, holding-hands type of escapism. i think that, with regards to your wishes, we'll have to settle for a sediments' worth of unravelling, like me, you're too trying to escape the puddle's worth of being immediately "concerned" with the comment section... we'll need to find commonality... from yesterday, i can tell you: i had the beatles faze when i was leaving the years attributed to my teens... then i found it really hard to find new music, outside the realm of bands akin to tool, the neo-progressive rock bands... but i see your point, my language is the sort of formal, that stages a lack of intimacy, but this is an ontological-high-jump, given your reply, and emphasis on friendship... you will have to curate me, moving forward, since i will be unable to moderate how, me, interacting with you, will be adequate to have finally said, something informal, by your standards of scrutiny. time, i will first have to see some of your idioms to change my dialect; i'll begin, i'll tell you where this was written from, Romford, Essex, England.

Jules  1h
If we are to move forward as friends, I have to express my feeling on the autism topic. First off, Autism is a spectrum that ranges from high functioning to low functioning. 30% of people with autism are in fact of average or higher intelligence. Some of the most famous scientists including Albert Einstein were in fact autistic. It is not synonymous with simple or stupid in any way, shape, or form. I dislike that you said your friend seemed to be less of a person because he had autism. However, I understand that you’re misconceptions weren’t meant in a malicious way

Mateuš Conrad  51s
so how can i move forward to establish a less informal dialect? i wasn't focusing on the details of the stated condition, i know that i'm handling something as fragile as an egg in terms of what words i employ, and that i might seem astoudning, in having not contra opinions on the matter beneath the impersonal "facade"... but you were asking about how to make our interaction more uninhibited, if we're going to lecture each other about infringing on delicate matters... i wasn't implying the person in question was less of a person, i was implying he was more of a person, by resembling a labyrinth, i didn't take any personhood from him, i simply reattached it to a metaphor, of elevated complexity, of a labyrinth: i was lost in attaining a mutual comprehension of a shared experience with him... what's so bad about that? i only mentioned something in passing, since your's, was the original "concern"... you asked me how we could continue in a less informal manner... this reply will not answer your original "concerns"... what if i were to say: i'm schizophrenic? what then? you'd lecture me on... all of your knowledge on the matter? if we're all going to interrogate each other... thus... then you have a misconception of schizophrenics... akin to john nash... personally, i don't understand how you'd think i'd be primarily focused on something said: intended to be relegated to: in passing... guess what... i'll send this and...

      BLOCK

               i'm basically rummaging
through porcelain...
  i was ****** off one writing
platform for no reason...
   being ****** off from another
is not on my wish list,
from a very, simple,
lack of reciprocated
       feed of understanding;

   oh i know when i see minor *******,
some liking it to micro-aggression...
i chose a fox as my totem,
learning from a 2015 "debacle":
it looks innocent at first,
    but then spirals out of control;
the more i sieve through
this construct known as humanity,
the more i chose to remain
hidden.
   - and for all the worth
of the tabloid press...
   this is where i'll reign, myself
included.

it was only the first screening of ex_machina,
but the words 'deus' and 'placebo'
were uttered after a walk of thus pondering:

understanding this movie requires kant's
critique of pure reason matter of frankly,
i lost the kantian concepts of *a priori and
a posteriori using the cartesian method of understanding,
gravitating in my realm of understanding
almost unconscious why the cartesian uncoupling
of the kantian compounds is required:

invoking a purely cognitive aspect of analytical
and synthetic i took the temporal realm of
pre- and post-, which is respective of the definitions
of the above italicised -

when watching the movie... apart from the groovy
part where music has no central role as is usual
in all horror movies... the aesthetic of horror movies
has been cleaned up thanks to technology,
that knife into the chest like knife into butter
is perfect... the knife into the chest also perfect...
it's the robotic of man's daily routines done by a robot
that does the horror bit...
it's music replaced with claustrophobia,
the theory is mesmerising... generally speaking
phobias are tiny... and the horror scenario
losing focus in terms of music and instead
focusing on an expanding phobia, like claustrophobia
is a gigantic leap in the horror movie scene...
i wonder what the moving imagery of arachnophobia
would look like... without technological frankensteins...
a massive thematic move but still trendy with mary shelley's
original idea... more clean cut... no scar marks...
a beautiful frankenstein emerges...
but enough of that...

the kantian translated with cartesian methodology,
losing the a priori and a posteriori coupling
with analytical and synthetic notions -
like me when i first learned language,
21 years later i've just started the analytical procedure,
prior to these years, the cut-off point at 21
i was merely synthesising the language,
so well that i even managed to phonetically
strain my tongue to fake having a limousine
and a mansion and a horse... posh posing fake...
it happens - no geordie no scouser no cockney in me...
just mundane pure elocution to a ****,
harmless if i'm being honest -
but no, no no, i mean i had to synthesise the language
first, before i lost all possible synthesis of it
attributed to vocabulary... it's then that i started
to analyse it!

so this robo chic... i was thinking:
what's the analysis to synthesis ratio in her?
that must be balanced, right?
there are so many things to analyse in life:
all those biologists, chemists, forensic scientists...
but only one successful synthesis - almost
like free will that does not dare to conflict
with other possibilities...
there's no before / after concerning what one knows,
a symbiosis has to exist between these two things -
it's not that she's artificial, she's pure analytic,
she can't be pure synthetic:

deep blue is pure synthetic - he was given all
the possibilities of a chess mastermind,
he's purely synthetic, because the only thing
he can analyse is chess, and in only doing so,
he can only synthesise the authentic craft of
playing chess and nothing else, meaning he has
limited parameters -
but this robotic woman / frankenstein
would be lost in terms of pure synthesis, unlike
deep blue - she's pure analysis, meaning
the interaction is almost two dimensional,
meaning that if man questions his free will,
she would also have to do so...
i'm thinking analytical intelligence (a.i.)
either pondering suicide, ****** - morality
in total... and being drunk...

the same conceptualisation applies
in my own scenario, using the cartesian methodology
on kantian concepts i realised
my thought is an interchange of analysis | synthesis |
analysis | synthesis... this interplay
is staggering... first i cognitively synthesise
then i cognitively analyse, ping-pong.

i have no care for attaching a priori to
synthesis or a posteriori to analysis, or whatever
dogmatic building block is expected,
in the temporal sense i see the future
as ordained by the faculty of imagination
and the present as ordained by the faculty of memory;
in the present there's only this:
a lot of verbs, some which i can control, some which
i can't... depending on my noun bank account...
that same old fascination with flowers and
the complete and utter lack of apps. for deciphering
names of flowers...

but of course there's a moral to the film's plot -
it mentions consciousness and awareness to something...
a bit like man being conscious of his evolution,
hence the necessity of forgetting **** sapiens
and embracing deus placebo...
after all... it will please the vanity of man to
think himself a god...
and in so doing... craft the possibility of a deus sapiens...
a rational god... given that we're still monkeys
in spandex shooting bullets at innocent random targets
in the minority.

did i forget something?
four beers does the trick... i watched a great movie...
now i'm going to drink some whiskey
and paint my room blood red
donning a dracula bun of hair tickling with excitement:
but prior... if the universe is an undifferentiated substance,
say... water... i imagine the geometry of it's boundlessness
concerning the capillary effect of water...
what sort of geometric shape would allow the singularity
of the universe to provide the parabola of it
being in a tube of glass... in comparison to it...
i'm an indentation... i'm like mercury in similar circumstances...
hello big void... filled with aurora colours and magpies.

title: loop
body:
or holes or days
and oh: or months...
let's pretend years
never existed.

sometimes, it's truly weird... but i'm not English... or British... sure... for convenience's sake, when asked by officials in the NHS... put me down at white British... once was the case of the Anglo-Saxons... well... at best i'm an Anglo-Slav... but i can't allow all these racial "minorities" residing in England to label with me... "reparations"... a "colonial-past"... or... post-colonialism, or whatever the fetish is... i just belong to a people without a colonial past... sorry... that's racist... to be unable to differentiate people ethnically... it simply is... that's how H'america rots... it has no ethnicity distinction... it's either all RACE or ***... can't tell apart the Serb fascists from the Ukrainian fascists?! i can't buy into this whole: i'm white therefore i'm somehow also the inheritor of post-colonialism... i'm on side with the Russians given this argument... sorry... i'm not having it... that's ******* racist: just because i'm white is somehow indicative of me receiving the minority sadism against the British in the realm of post-colonialism... **** no... **** never...you will not put other people's history onto other people: because you're ethnically-blind... just because i'm as white as a Brit doesn't imply we share a shared history... ****-off cupper-neck... come come... milk me the golden **** of Moloch! right now... i'm loving the Russian attitude of... *******... or we'll **** with you...because it simply doesn't make sense for certain ethnicities of the white race to... capitulate to the "racial minorities" of a post-colonial argumentation of: new schematics of how society's to be orientated... nicely... just nicely... i'm seriously thinking about ******* off to Liverpool... the women seem nicer... less paranoid... less-stuck... less... ugh... yucky... itchy... whatever it is with having... over-value delusions of... obviously having bypassed the safety-net of becoming a nun...

the day started well enough... i must have drunk about half
a litre of whiskey: forgetting to take some naproxen
to ease me into sleep.. woke up with cold sweats
at: some time just past 5am...
some nightmare... Holocaust related? i don't remember...
but if you're waking up sweating and shivering
at the same time... lucky for me... i meditated on this towards
work: well... the horrifying has already happened...
i never understood the argument that 6 millions Jews
died in the Holocaust... technically... those were 6 million
Polacks... while France capitulated to **** Germany
in whatever span of time...
  it took longer for Poland to capitulate to both:
**** Germany and Soviet Russia... and we're talking:
a nation that only recently emerged after being non-existent
given the partitions... while France... a colonial power...
anyway... had two coffees... a precursor of a bad idea:
showered... applied 7 different "beautifying" products
to my hair, beard, face... armpits... collar bones and neck
and hands...
   ****** off... as ever... one hour early:
why do i mismatch my timing whenever travelling to
Wembley... if i catch the fast (Southend Victoria train)
i can get from Romford to Liverpool Street in under 20 minutes...
since... the train doesn't stop at: Chadwell Heath,
Goodmayes, Seven Kings, Ilford, Manor Park, Forest Gate...
Maryland... straight onto Stratford...
and then Liverpool Street... and then that's another
20 or so minutes on the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
well... nice weather... spring is in full swing...
another two coffees from McDonald's... sitting on a bench
on the Olympic route...
eating an almond croissant... oh looky-looky...
company... starlings...
                        i was surprised: where did the pigeons *******
to? so i'm going to be sitting on this bench
by myself... drinking a 4th coffee... eating an almond
croissant... smoking a cigarette after the "feast" while
having this troop of 4 or 5 starling beg me to pinch
of my croissant... ****'s sake: the day is starting to look
beautiful... i couldn't resit...
plus... there's that added bonus of looking mythical...
eh? even mystical... since a few coworkers already spotted
you and you're not some old man in a park
throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons...
you're throwing pinches of an almond croissant to starlings...
i always said: better a soul of an old man
in a young body than... the complete ******* opposite
of... whatever leads to dementia: lax...
old men having tantrums of teenagers...
                       just looks silly... and it was sort of like
that today... with the Scousers... Scouse...
   i was expecting such a lively, lovely atmosphere...
i swear... the further north you go... the lovelier people
become... my heart poured out at the Liverpool fans...
the Manchester fans? eh... not so much...
they're sort of like Londoners... stiff-upper lip: tense...
paranoid... i don't know how to describe them:
proper... after today i'm thinking about visiting Liverpool...
******* for the weekend... maybe book a ticket
at Anfield... but just go and see the city... wander...
get lost... find myself...
        i'm tired of continental Europe... then again:
i'm also tired of the south of England...
           4th coffee in... i thought i was going to die...
a thumping in my forehead... i already have high blood pressure
issues... four coffees in... almost zero food:
calorie intake: for someone 6ft2 and 98kg... it's not 2000kcal...
for the first time on a shift
i had to do my jacket up so that my neck would
be covered... the tie was suffocating me...
with ideas of dropping dead from a heart-attack...
thrice prone to *****... the one time i did i enacted
being a cow... i swallowed it back down... crummy...
eh... flakey... sort of like when you...
bring back milk that's half digested: when it splits...
into cheese and lactose juice... acid...
on my way back home: a most glorious full moon...
cider... sweaty shirt...
and this... fiddly ******* the Metrpolitan line...
mixed-race... sort of reminded of Harley Dean...
fiddling with her blonde-tinged curly hair...
i always found curly hair... um... hmm...
too infatuating... she does her make-up...
her lips with a crayon and then some quasi-lipstick...
cute nose, cute forehead...
and she just keeps looking at me...
with the most doe-esque intimidation of:
          why don't you react to me?! why?! why?!
she's so ******* blatant: she can't hide it...
i'm sitting there with my shirt undone...
   oh right... hairy chest of a pirate... thick bulging neck...
babe... i'm tired... i've been up since 5am...
started the shift at 9m... just finished come 6:30pm...
of course i'm *****... ever time i become tired
i need to relax: since i've been keeping this hardened
**** in my ****-pocket since this morning...
i'll get back home... sit on the thrones
and do the no. 1, 2 and 3... which is **** while sitting
down... relaxing my ****... taking a ****
and subsequently jerking off...
but she was so blatant... d'uh... pretending to look
into the glass behind me for her reflection...
checking her phone without taking a selfie...
how her hair would look better arranged if she
has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head...
truly... a pretty little number...
but i was already coming down from a high of:
Scouser women... are all the English girls so pretty
up north? like i said: i think i need to take a weekend
trip to Liverpool... or Newcastle...
i was taking aback when a married woman
approach me... started talking... gripped my hand and
then proceeded to kiss my cheek...
infatuated by the beard...
  that's nice... that's why life is worth living...
random strangers... coming up to you: infatuated
by your presence... having no reservations:
no inhibitions... needing to kiss you... touch you...
always with the northern types...
and i'd agree... southerners: the fairies...
Londoners... so ******* Victorian: reserved...
it's like playing poker 24/7...
   most of the time i find myself of keeping a trustworthy
line of conversation... i just become mute:
bored... i don't like the nitty-gritty of small talk...
what the **** do we have in common?!
absolutely nothing... beside... what?
trying to keep each other comfortable?
no... i'll use my silence to strain the fact that:
we're not friend in school playground... we're not...
but it's different with northeners...
i witnessed two grown men... cry... because they
were refused entry for being sick... puking...
grown men crying... because they couldn't be part
of the Liverpool choir of: you're never stand alone...
mind you... coworkers getting ****...
deservedly: too eager... too eager... push and shove...
can't we just talk? once you get that *******'s worth
of an SIA license you start losing the plot...
machismo... ugh... talking about people who can't
tell the difference from judo from throwing
watermelons...
oh but these northern girls... a married woman
just walk up to you... tipsy... tipsy as:
custard is most definitely pale, high noon sun
yellow... grabs your hand and kisses your cheek...
times like this: i feel... gratefully alive...
it's so very little but at the same time: so much...
i can forget the 5am wake up call...
of the nightmare that stirred me...
i couldn't possibly cry over football...
something beautiful, like Prokofiev? sure...
lucky for me we managed to seize about 10 cans of beer
from someone... who managed to bring those cans
of beer home? moi...
beer... relaxing to some Type O Negative...
i'm pretty sure there was this other woman
on the train: fixated on playing with her...
she kept stroking it... stroking it...
some other day...
like a cat with an itchy scalp... what the **** do they call them?
archetypical clues?
i heard that once... if a woman in your vicinity is
fiddling with her hair... she's into you...
i seriously want to forget these stereotypes...
i prefer the more direct approach...
she comes up to you: a complete stranger
and kisses your on your furry cheek...
it might have been sunny... it might have been warm
today... but the tenderness of those lips...
i need to book a weekend break to Liverpool...
seriously... i need to visit Liverpool...
those woman are insatiable! i need to ******* to Liverpool!
i already can't stand the claustrophobically
constipated London girls...
   it does my head in!
            what happened to: perchance: some... foon?!
on a *****-nilly... what the **** is this?
the ******* Black Dahlia... no... wait...
the Black Narcissus nunnery? the ******* hills are full
of music?! or is that... filled, with?!
this is a trajectory toward a death-cult...
o.k. whatever... i'm getting slowly more drunk
and relaxed and... not in the mood of...

whatever... i just can't face up to having to faces...
it's enough that i already juggle two tongues...
but i can't face up to having two faces;
i see people taking themselves overtly seriously
and i'm thinking about... puking:
and then swallowing the puke that doesn't leave
my mouth... like a cow's digestive schematic.

I have a friend in north Wales
She's a scouser but lives in Rhyl
Her job is taking care of young adults
Who have learning dificulties
They live in hostels where they are overseen
By my friend and her colleagues
So, another friend of our's rang her at work
And asked if she was busy
She said that she wasn't as they were all out
So and so had gone shopping with so and so
Someone else had gone here
Another had gone there
And one had gone to the harpoonist
As usual, for lessons
From a harpoonist?
Yeah, you know
Someone who plays harp

                                    By Phil Roberts

am a scouser la
dont want ya la dee da
grew up wid a yard
saw gardens from afar
jus me an me ma
wid ar windows barred
against da smackheads
an da scallys
dat wanted wots ars
not dat wot wuz ars
wuz ars anyway
stuff lifted off a wagon
dat got lost on edge lane
comin off da 62
could get ya waylaid
passin thru where i grew up
back in da day

Car horns slice through the air,
congestion gathers on the roads
making murky smoky trails

There sits a man

whom bears heavy weight;
shrouded, in dark clothing and mystery
Bearded, diligent and wise

Alan is his name

A Scouser if I'd ever seen one,
always happy and yet never alarmed
by the noises and pollution around him

This, is his home

I see him everyday when I pass,
come rain or shine, hail or wind
He sits, diligently and acute
with a paper cup in hand

Living in the open city

He shows that life can be unpredictable,
yet freedom cannot be contained
We've chatted, him and I
He says the institutions can't keep him down

They're out for money and control

This is his freedom, his way of life
to do what whatever he pleases
Tent ready, trolly in possession
Without fear, without order
without rules

Not knowing what the next day may bring

I.

i'm always nostalgic when listening to the Mortal Kombat soundtrack... for a reason only i know... it's not that there was a shopping mall in Ilford (Essex... but there was the inner London border of the A406) so... perhaps: technically still London... i.e.
not Essex...  and it was a predominantly Jewish bit of London... Ilford... Barkingside... Gants Hill would showcase a Hanukkah Menorah on the roundabout: when the roundabout was still fun... as fun as the Gallows Corner roundabout still is... i.e.: no ******* traffic lights... gear up... front gears on 3 (of 3)... back gears on 3 (of 7)... imagining holding onto a fox's tail... or a big ask akin to a truck... line up on the outside of its body so the driver might see you in the rear-view window... what happens before the supposed "white flight" from an area? the Jewry are the first to leave... the Holocaust has sharpened their take on trends... demographic tides... it's not like the rest of the Semites (Ha'ha'king'Raabs) have them in the "good books"... intellect before a hard-on... i'm nostalgic because... i remember what Cranbrook Rd. used to look like... i remember what technology felt like... fiddly... Blockbusters... renting VHS video cassettes... the mantra: please rewind this cassette after watching it... so that the next person renting it will not have to rewind it... hardly a Luddite... i still prefer to fiddle around with cables connected to an MP3 player when cycling... i have nostalgia for late 20th century technology... wires... plugs... VHS... the ******* compact disk... i still have a hoard of those that i burn and "translate" into MP3... the Ilford of my youth... when there was still a visible presence of Jewry... before... once again: the division into the labyrinth of their diaspora... i can't count myself "lucky": or so entrenched... "we": the Polacks... number... at best estimate... around 815,000 on these isles... the Romanians have come... if we're not welcome... we won't outstay our welcome... but what became of Ilford: what it is now... little Bangladesh... i once had an "angel" in the Ilford OurPrice (whittle **** the Branson) started making his money via ****** Records having signed up Mike Oldfield: Tubular Bells or... the Exorcist Soundtrack... or... (the) Halloween soundtrack... in OurPrice i first bought this Mortal Kombat soundtrack... the sheath read (past participle: red... but not like the colour... ergo not reed: to read)... original motion soundtrack by George S. Clinton... i wasn't sold that... i was a whittle Hans back then: i'm still a Conrad... a white blonde beast... beside my still intact blonde moustache that my grandmother decided to call ginger (strawberry blonde)... and if i grow my hair long like a barbarian: a streak of blonde in the hair: ha... the accents of grey appearing... slow so ever slow... how mortality evaporates... caste in a clinging remark for... bones... good thing he... she... looked out for me when buying this CD... i was sold the proper soundtrack...: gravity kills... KMFDM... traci lords, orbital, psykosonik, geezer, sister machine gun, bile, ****** death, type o negative, *****'s day out... that's the first time a proper mistake was made...  second time... when Batman Forever came out... i was still the puppeteer king of solipsism... playing with figurines of superheroes... making random sounds and narrating what my hands were freely left to do: being available... and i wanted the proper... classical soundtrack... not the songs of: seal - kiss of a rose... U2... hold me kiss me, thrill me... i wanted... the OST... for... elliot goldenthal's fledermausmarschmusik... it's just over a minute long... such were the times... boys still played with figurines... i'm not going to blame myself: having ejected the Jewry from Europe... what came after? still people... but... it's hardly the sort of people that one could relate to: great food... hardly a people that will be willing to create Yiddish... yet still speak terrible ******... like my francophobia... i have a fear of speaking French: simply because i will not speak it with a French accent... i'll speak it at best as some Novak Djoković... but once you speak English with... well... i'm not going to spell out Scouser... pretend Essex-lad or Cockney-cockers... just this... generic London cosmopolitan... foreigner hiding a fake native... i can pull it off: but... to speak French... without a French accent? what's the point? it sounds: fair-enough... passable... but i'm used to the psychology of integration... to the point where i'm indistinguishable that a Scottish English teacher will not suspect i'm not an Englishman from the south when talking to me... while insulting two Polacks at a bus-station... hell... my affinity with my fellow ethnic clusters... oddly enough to see ****** first and white second... has to be the case... unlike the trouble in H'america of the collective mr. brown, mr. coco... mr. cinnamon... mr. auburn... but no herr nigeria etc. that's the "problem": if some Arab insinuates i look like a German... my fetish for the deutsche-zunge starts to boil... after all: i write in English but i think about... the migration of the Saxons... no... not the Pomeranians... or the Swabians... or the Rhine-dwellers... Ruthenians? still... that nostalgia for the technology that was available at the end of the 20th century... fiddly technology... none of this current: wireless radioactive ******* makes you want to engage in "things"... ethereal culprits... like that one time when Gants Hill roundabout had an Odeon cinema... by mistake i was sold a ticket to see the Little Princess... i sat through the horror... i was supposed to see Jumanji... but i saw through the horror... watching to old ladies knit... socks? throughout the whole flick... later i imitated Jonathan Edwards running down Coventry Road on a bouncing gallop... i never ran so fast as i did then... come to think of it... little... little princess... Manga... i must say... Manga has been a greater influence on me than Disney could ever be... ウロ津キドジ... obviously you won't find a katakana syllable-unit of TSU... it wasn't hard to find what the alternative was... TSU-NA-MI... TSU - a bit of a hieroglyph... it can't be written as a sound - vowel or consonant... between ア イ ウ エ オ  ン... i remember that summer... when i was eating fried chicken while my uncle was cleaning his Porsche... listening to either Californication by the R.H.C.P... stone temple pilots: art school g/f... or... how did these brats pull off frogstomp... in the assemble of silverchair?! well... TSU- i already arrived at... that ******* pseudo emoji... but how NA-MI became... what it already was...? ナミ? i used to play guitar... i still sometimes do... but when i remember how it sounds... to play silverchair's SHADE... eh... first irksome lesson... Black Sabbath's Black sabbath: let's forget the chords...

D|---------5-----------------------|
A|-----------------4---------------|
E|-3-----------------------­--------|

which is almost "something" akin to...
Atomic Rooster's: death walks behind you...
Deep Purple's: Black Night...
Spirit: when i touch you...
Free's: all right now...

II.

this can't be achieved: purely verbatim... although i'll look for the extract: from unbearable lightness of being - that encounter between Tomas & Tereza... eyes wide shut... slug mouths always open... insatiable hungers & subsequent delights at the relishes... did he prefer to have *** with his eyes closed... or did she... one of them was most certainly looking...

trouble with ***: there's no trouble at all:
i want to see as much as i might be allowed:
i want my eyes to burn...
since... stomaching enough *****:
i will never... exactly... see in 3rd person...
all that happens in a *******...
with one using my well hydrated little richard
and another sitting on my gob
for me to slobber...
all those 3rd person antics of the ****** are missing...
it's not so much fun if there
is that: envious parade of: it takes three to tango...
one will do...
even if i were a king Solomon...
there would always be a Queen Sheba...
there would always be a father:
a King David: the psalm renegade...
what wisdom from a man
with a harem?
ha...                                i'll just
expatriate myself to a time:
a posteriori... i'll detail all the facts...
after the deeds... wisdom for some comes
with a relief at finding regrets...
no Buddha to tow...
i'll die hungering for prostitutes...
Turkish Romanian...
Macedonian...
because... the English girls played
the game of nun...
no offence: but i i read offence
all over what was made available
for the Pakistani groomers of Rotherham...
girl... if you only asked...
i had all the banana skins
the *****... sure... i was missing
the Colombian fairy dust...
excuses, excuses... this Pontius Pilate
punishment of:
i am... to be absolved from the concept
of free will: from agency:
third person authority:
leverage a blame...
what a zombie-riddled life of welcome:
solo-sorrow...

oh hell... please ask the Mongolian horde
to invade the second time:
i have nothing to defend!
what i might have wished to defend is
already available on the free-market!
they're bragging about it...
choking as they go around...
   i'm surrounded by older women
telling me not to marry...
imagine that...
in the trenches during world war I...
there arrived a makeshift brotherhood...
women are ******* unto each other:
watch them starve for a place in an Ottoman
harem... secure... watch them turn into...
cannibalistic chickens in a courtyard of
farm...
where once there was this Jewish
matchmaker witch / aunt...
there's now... a woman who has
a son that married... while she tells her neighbour's
son: not to marry...
no problem... Rachel: RA-KX-EL...

-  oh what a loss of momentum...
that: what happened when pushing too much coagulated
ice into a narrow neck of a glass...
for ms. amber to play catch-up to what
i already arrived at with the wine...
and a sly beer...

oh right... he was looking at: the following list:

- Loch Lomond
- Zodiac (dolly alderton... i can use her
actual name... she uses it... in print)
- Milan Kundera
- *** after 13 years looking: thai surprise etc.
- Zeus: Swan...
- peek-ah-boo... at the barbers

payroll of journalists - poet: what priest?
lackey? the "sensibility" of journalists...
beside the opinion sections of
the weekend magazines...
no... not all the president's men typo... sorry...
type of journalists...
what's left?
simulating depression by:
listening to the hellraiser soundtrack
for a month: finding relief in some other music...

no... i was pretty much depressed for the number
of nights i put on christopher young's soundtrack
for a month... then i switched to the XXs
and some Trentemoller... etc.
i slept less hours... but upon waking i felt a Faroe Island
invigoration...

wait for the bracket: in & out...
most certainly in: "no" out...

- a pre-scriptum technical note: how best to approach this,
what will eventually become a collage
rather than a narrative cascade: column -
since (it) will hardly be worthy of teasing at
a paragraph...

however it will be approached:
it will most probably be approached with that
first: an impromptu by a goliath ****
done in two parts...

idiot me pushing an iceberg of cubes into
a tall weak glass...
obviously pushing them hard enough
to break the glass up
and leave with the index and middle
finger with a deep cut...
then... me writing this...
delayed by... my body to do its magic...
the bleeding to stop...
no... no plaster... no mastic fantastic...
hands washed...
paper towel wrapped around each finger...
applied pressure...

give or take... the time it takes
to "smuggle" 35cl of whiskey into my room...
god... how **** a bottle of liquor looks
in its first minutes out from
a refrigerator...
and when you pour it?
there's no: glug glug glug sound
of the top-head heavy: i.e. full...
it's liquid amber...
any loose liquid would ****** itself
like a cascade from the narrow
spear-head of the bottle neck..
but not ms. amber... sub-zero...

give or take... 10 minutes...
now my fingers are itchy again...

... if you want the proper version... please see
https://allpoetry.com/poem/16014743-two-bleeding-fingers---in-cervisia-felicitas--PENDING...­-UNFINISH-by-Matthew-Conrad

dear ms. or ~mr.,

     i am writing for the idea of a forethought,
or however plausible is the allocation
    of prenuptial candescence...
             of what is deemed hushed
should a freak accident de-affirming the lives
of a british cohort of would-be Oasis stardoms
be mentioned via viola beach...
  that's that vague introduction i think all 21st
literature should engage with...
             i have recently published a book of
that has all the certificates necessary to be found
agreeable for the palette of seriousness...
in that a professional minded to give it a due review,
which i congratulate myself on as having
less that 1K number of views, but at least one
serious comment... signature provided.
                if people such as me had the incompetence
of a Herr Mannelig, i'd too be gathering my rosebuds
as i may to the tune of a chanted: carpe diem...
            i conceive that my "letter" is a tad-bit unorthodox,
and suggesting we might convene over coffee and
biscuits... but such is my lot...
               the Baltic affair answers with a diet of
sushi herring... piquant in their acidity,
   and far removed from moss-green horseradish of
wasabi...
                    given i've been writing on the British isles,
i find my "audience" an adieu commemorating these
isles... for i am continentally bound for say at least a hello...
     you see, i have recently published a book of
poetry with my own expense, in the literary world
i guess that might either mean the suggested norm,
  or a vanity that might overcome king Solomon too...
but you will find me in a stratification of bewilderment
i the way i'll formulate the following question:
would you consider publishing more of my work,
or indeed invest in forwarding the already printed artifacts
to a more "respectable" care for an audience affection
given the modern concern for numbering as many
as pope Urban 2nd might have done when giving a sermon
on crusading?
                        once more: i apologise for my informal
gravitas: i could only think of writing a letter
as if i might chance a truancy toward a respectable life
and not a chance meeting in a cafe without anyone
purposively voiding the pride of Diogenes of Sinope...
or he who flung himself into smouldering Etna...
               i suppose i am writing as a case for curiosity...
    i do understand you publication might have
received an epitaph and must have ended its coercion
for an equivalent of a public office,
        but with due respect, i am sending you a copy
of my bookmarked works... merely a p.s. to what actually
exists in digitally invigorating chasm of effort...
        as a simple gratitude and consolation of having
been able to see the 20th century revised with pressed-down
timber and ink, to what is the ultra-conscious
and the hungering-for-haste bypass....
             of course if the appropriate formality is required
i can present it... but unlike a curriculum vitae
my biopic is an informality auto-suggestive of my art,
and if formality is necessary, i will elevate this type
of peacocking in to a formal: yes sir, no madam,
my address is as follows...
                   if there need be a prelude to a summary
whereby i write a yours and state what formality
there's still to be had, whether yours honourably,
or with kindest regards, or with a yours
that counteracts the dear as might a Scouser address
a femme with pet, let alone a differentiation
of ms. and mrs. acronyms...
        it is beyond my consolidation into what is
nonetheless, a medium of acquisition.
                     as is the already understood:
sprechen schön luciferian? oder güt Polnisch?
yoyo or carcass of parabola... eins: umlaut
über ist omega zu...
        i digress, and without due consequence...
    or to provide the sigma:
        i am wondering if this might interest you,
should a rekindling of an avidness to publish be bound to
such tongued leveraging a blank space...
           i can understand that such writing can only
sprout or be agreeable within a niche market...
                  but as a mere suggestion
and as a lack of a gamble i am wondering whether you'd
consider the possibility to further my endeavour...
   and unlike a beggar, i am not imploring
                a chance to further it regardless of
success at it being furthered... for i am blindfolded
and galvanised by the concept expressed by Zatoichi;
i cannot add any more persuasions that might make
my arguments any more convincing than they already
are, most convincing as best: to be discarded.
            but with due concern for the state of things,
i send you a copy of my published work to express
what's but a snippet of the magnum opus...
          if but to revel in the snapshot of what could be
a career move worthy of an autobiography...
             given my complete ineptitude in the publishing
economy, and self-publicising ergonomics...
    but as ever: for want of experience, there's an equal
want for ineptitude.

                                  of what can be kindly regarded,
                        upon a maiden voyage of exchanges
                 to the letter and the date, as a worthy introduction
                          with the sole hope of a dialogue;
    and so with due sincerity i leave my name
                       to be a testimony toward future testaments
         of awaiting an equilibrium of assets;
                                            Matthew Conrad.

My Grandfather,
with his bare hands
built that house on our
fertile land,
were I was born and did reside
and there it stil does stand.
Rite on the borderline
of Greater Manchester
and Merseyside.

Since the day I could walk
and way before I did talk,
I'd help a little
with sickle and pitch fork,
and I'd watch the workers
like a hawk.

One day I'd reached my prime,
my farther said I'd  come of age,
and then at last came the time
for me to get my first ever wage.

"Now its time for you to get paid
(Great maybe now I'll get laid.)
Have a think about investing
(does not sound interesting)
In some great machine
like a tractor,
so your workload does lessen"
(Or maybe I'll live the dream
and get on X factor,
now I can pay for a singing lesson.)
                            
"You tended well to our crop
a bumper harvest you did yield.
Best we've had for years
Good on ya son."
"Great now I can sit on the Kop
always wanted to see Anfield
and go out for beers
around Goodison!"

I got dressed up to the nines,
on a sunny day ,in the finest Lacoste.
Here come the good times
In the big city I got lost.

Thier was some kind of parade
for those with pride.
I was given a serenade
by a chap with his hair dyed.
"Have no fear come in for a beer
you dont have to be queer
all are  welcome here."
Was not sure what that implied
but I said thanks and went inside.

First place I'd been in Liverpool.
Bunch of lads inside playing pool.
I picked up a que
and asked could I play to,
they were not cool            
"Who the hell are you?"
I did not sound Merseyside
so they took me for a fool.

For what it was worth I tried to explain.
"Only had to bunk six stops on train.
I'm local enough so dont complain.
I'm the man that grows your scran,
digging the earth in the pouring rain."

"Stop your bul you wool,
you sound like some kind of manc,
we'll give your ars a spank!"

I  was not sticking around for abusing.
I downed my tonic
and out the door I did walk.
Although I did find it amusing,
and somewhat ironic,
that a scouser could take the ****
out of the way anybody did talk.

Feeling dejected and worried
I'd almost come to harm
I went back to work on my farm
to the Job I'd hurriedly rejected.

But then the nights did draw in
and it did start to get colder
and again I felt my life was boring,
need to live a little before I get older.

Had enough of merseyside
with thier closed off unions.
I'll try my luck on the other side.
I'll go meet the Mancunions.

Yes its going to be great,
yes I'll have a night to remember.
I'm on the lash around Deansgate,
on the twenty fourth of December.

Strait in first place I saw
It looked all I'd hoped for
and more, top draw.

They had an event of some kind
seemed to me it was for charity.
I'm not usually one for morality
but twas night before Christmas
so I did not mind.

A fundraiser for the down and out
refugees that were homeless and brasic.
Some were prancing, call it dancing,
others just hanging out.
The juke box was banging out
a Stone roses classic.

"Pint of smooth."
All stopped to move,
I felt the needle scratch out of that groove,
and no creature was stirring In that public house
not even a mouse...
When I say nothing was stirring
thier was three hundred pair of eyes
that did stare at me  from all sides.
But you know what I'm saying.
I open gob, record scratches off,
stops playing,
and no creature was stirring
in that public house, not even a mouse
and the barman, he looks at me and he says.
"Are you Scouse?"

"No bro
I meen no are kid
and I'm here to spend
doe you know so
dont flip your lid."

"Whats that you said?
What do you meen
what am I doing here?
I'm Lancashire!
Born and bred
I'm out thier in my wellies
watering turnips to keep
you townies fed!"

"I'm not on tour
I'm no pretender."
Was going well for me
until they all saw me
take a selfy
outside the Haçienda.

In these modern times
most try our best
to be excepting of the rest.
Strait, gay, white or brown,
but I say its just as important
to extend that hand of friendship
to those in the next town.

For after all,
if we got together
and gathered our masses
we would surely be the most awesome,
the very best.
We.
The great working classes
of Englands North West!

.poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
ringo star h'ahmed...
george ali...
paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
right on the plonker...
i'm not finished!
i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
(one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

gehirnablassen...
brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

)  notes to preserve completing
what remained: pending...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos / chaos...
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
graphemes: sz phi theta
compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
german 19th century fascination
with islam...
θought and φilosophy...
greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...                                         (

1. well, let's begin...
        it has taken me two days to complete
my utterances... i've just spent 40 or so minutes
listening to the last of the youtube
stronghold (dangerfield -
               from hash to ******) -
i can relate on the literature,
i can't relate in taking steps of replica...
i started smoking marijuana
aged 21... i think you should start later...
drinking while being a teenager, fine...
i hanged around with some irish in my teens,
we used to have sleepovers at youth clubs
play pool, buy ***** mags and drink
white lightning: bumb cider...
but given that i was sold chemically
enchanced (negatively, i might add) marijuana
that turned me psychotic...
ah... psychiatric terms, used by the mainstream
like some casual metaphors...
     recently i was at a health scrutiny hour...
yes: my psychosis was made stable in
a schizophrenia: which is a new word to describe
bilingualism... oh the english natives!
what competent people...
  no, it didn't become bipolar: psychotic depression...
lucky me... lucky in that:
           bukowski: isolation is the gift...
the rest are a test of your endurance...
no **** sherlock!

  i just look at all the particular instances
when english (the language) breaks rules...
    heidegger merely pointed out
that there's a difference between chaos
and χαoς: well cheap and cha-cha-cha...
but when it comes to the ferryman?
some would say: χαρoν...
otherwise? do the raj bidding of inserting
a surd H... nibble at the tetragrammaton...
   and call the ferryman κ - αρoν
                                            (h)...
this isn't the only example: cheap, chisel...
        chemistry... it's not chem-ístree...
      it's kem-ístree!

2. poor *******, the english,
   they can't discuss orthoraphy...
hardly, to begin with:
what with i (ι) and j (ȷ) -
you have already cut the diacritical heads
of come the CAPITALS: I & J...
what a simple hydra to vanquish...

2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
graphemes: sz phi theta
compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)

                     i like this one...
   letters, syllables, graphemes,
sodium: Na...
  the key and the door analogy of the keyhole...
feminism: it wants to coagulate...
to group existentialism with
scholastism...
sorry honey... play your footie:
*******!
                    key being inserted:
φought enters θilosoφy....
yes, the graphemes are elevated,
beyond the stature of consonants...
didn't you ask?
oh, you should have asked...
- socrates: can yoy give a rational account
                    of syllables, but not of letters?
- theaetetus: it seems possible.
-socrates: quiet; i think so too. at any rate,
surely you'll have an answer about the first
syllable of 'socrates', if someone asked
'tell me, theaetetus, what is SO'?
- theaetetus: yes, my reply would
be that it is S and O.
- socrates: so there's your account of a syllable,
isn't it?
    - theaetetus: yes.
- socrates: all right then, tell me alao of your account
of S is.

sorry... after this point, for B to be a surd?
bottomless pit... let's ask what is a letter,
what is a syllable... and what is a grapheme...
the greeks bargained on dialectical markers...
which they dind't need, since the latins needed them...
what is a syllable is also: what is a grapheme,
and how to account for "strange" vowels?

the greek thought, they thought,
"thinking" that only the greek language
was correlated to universal thinking...
and that universal thinking was only associated
with greeks speaking... pish-poor choice
if you mind...

         syllables... individual letters...
weren't consonants synonymous to syllables?
esp. with added diacritical markers?
play-tongue-think-tank with the greeks...
sooner or later they fizzle out as
redundant...
         couldn't keep Constantinople...
will not regret or revive the bounties of
reclaiming Istambul...

i once claimed to tolerate islam...
tolerating islam is one thing...
    respecting islam: quiet another...
i can attempt myself at
respecting a cloning device...
which any religion is: a cloning device...
i can tolerate it...
which, doesn't imply i respect it;
i wouldn't eat a meal with a muslim...
and sharing a meal?
is my fullest acknowledgement of
respect, i tolerate islam,
i, tolerate it,
   thank **** i don't respect it.
respect it like some 19th century german
philosopher... hegel or nietzsche....

what is a syllable "compensated" by
a grapheme, esp. with a hidden consonant,
akin to the caron "s"...
      i.e. šeep: look at that...
the first time orthography was introduced
into the englishsprechen...
   hid the H: šeep... sheep...

well we already know where the greek
letter went to: modifying scientific
constants... after all π = 3.14....
    Σ = summation...
            last time i checked...
letter, whether consonant or vowel
orientated,
took up more meaning beyond
translating the optic of encoded
sound into expressed sound...
    they became surds...
          tools to think with,
only secondary sound symbols...
you no longer translated the representation
of the sound,
there was an idea behind the letter...
disguised as a "letter"...
chemistry minded the syllables:
Na: sodium, salt...
   and that was that...
              
  fai(s) çe q'(u)é voudrā(s) -
written, but otherwise a surd...
fwench has the most examples...

3. music choice...
brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
     mind you, i will gladly whistle about
three songs while walking...
this is the part where i become an arrogant
*******... teaching yourself does
that to a man, there's no pride in being
lectured, ordered to regurgitate...
for all that pomp & circumstance
that makes pride & prejudice shy...
    she should have always been
first choice on the fiver banknote...
jane austen my ***...
            mary shelley was the dog's *******,
through and through...
the three songs i sometimes whistle
while walking, taking a whiskey for a walk
(good thing i don't own a dog)...

a. beethoven's symphony IX
     allegro assai vivace - alla marcia...
b. la marseillaise...
   c. british grenadiers - fife & drum...
shhh...
    (for all the worth of shakespeare's
poetry... robert burn's:
aud lang syne...
        hell... i can't write sing-along poetry...
poetical commentary...
which still beats poetry worthy of
thee theatre...
shakespeare, no shakespeare...
aud lang syne:
   old long gone song, refurbished)...

5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

       isn't it obvious? england is a metal
asymlum when you wish to see it as such...
somehow and "suddenly" all the social
pressures disappear when nagging either
a polonaise society or a h'american society...
i'll be critical of applied english,
as a language...
but when it comes to living?
               second to none... when i was younger,
and growing up in poland
the english were know as gaylords...
or the bellybuttons of the world...
now, having grown up among the irish
in the outer east-end of Loondon?
want to talk to a 6ft1 115kg "******" about
his lack of obsession with marital status?
his complete disinterest in dating?
what's a dating app?!
                 the same kind of "******"
obsessed with templar chants?
dabbling in helvegen?

  dating... what a weird concept...
whenever i get a chance, i'll sit with a thai
surprise (bisexual, female)...
manage to take her home, play her some
jazz... **** her in the garden...
                            walk her home...
"date"... when it comes to prostituites...
when it comes to prostitutes...
    britney spears  - criminal,
     rihanna - shut up & drive,
   lady gaga - telephone
                       holly valance - kiss kiss
delta goodrem - innocent eyes.....
gay boy got gay rights...
what a boring time to be alive in...
just when homosexuality was no longer tabooo,
norman stephen "typo" *******...
boring homosexuality...
  antithesis artistic homos...
gays are boring me with their antics,
i'd also love latex love triangles...
but...
  i'm not joining in,
since i haven't been made welcome...
         welcome this:
the rightful pucker of a knuckle count's worth
of a sucker!

    i've experienced only: 3, loves at first sight...
kot... i rememher her surname,
she was the first to kiss me,
aged, roughly 7...
    priya.... my ex-girlfriend's
younger sister...
                          isabella of grenoble...
who took my virginity...
oh, ****...
        there was freckles galore daniella...
at st. augustine's... rabbit to her...
there was... milena...
there was samatha...
                there was jadwiga...
                       there was janina...
i fell in love too many times...
there was ilona of novosibirsk...
   gregoria who licked my face
like a cow...
                 the ukranian *******,
the bulgarian prostitutes who i stole
kisses from,
the serbian strippers...
   packaged boy,
  postcard ****-acto...
                 the australian fling...
half hindu half scouser...
towering beauty with the looks
akin to tweety bird lips (as my irish friend
noted)...

women... ah ha ha...
           i guess 3 months is long enough
for me to be with them...
    last time i checked, she was on her period,
and i was gagging...
last time i checked: ******* a *******
her period alleviates the period pains...
she didn't let me,
instead? i received a week
bound to reading Bulgakov...

           condoms are great when used
to **** a ******* her period...
that's how i started to hate relationships...
*** monopoly..
   and readings from cosmopolitan magazine
about the out-dated
idiosyncracy of relationship statuses...

4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
german 19th century fascination
with islam...
θought and φilosophy...
greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...

     i can tolerate islam,
but, i can't respect it....
    how could i respect it?
           i met a greek in warsaw....
he sounded like a goth,
     how the spanish tongue sounded
much akin to the greek zunge...     

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on an ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

          mind you: i always seemed to "mis-pronounce"
words in english... first came puma:
i was laughed at on a primary school bus
heading from st. augustine's (half-way between
gants hill and barkingside) to the barkingside
swimming pool: where i learned to swim
by myself, very much akin to me learning
the english language, by myself,
dropped into the deep end,
i was a complete mute...
my parents were also learning the zunge...
so they couldn't exactly teach me,
i had to learn it myself...
      so it wasn't puma: with that hollowed
out U...
      i.e. pú-mah... it was: pew-mah...
or piu-mah...
           weird...
                   then i found other examples...
i was once more corrected
when it came to the celts...
                       it wasn't cedilla "riddled":
çelts, but Kelts...
    funny that... the football team from glasgow
is dubbed çeltic, not celtic: isn't it?
i loved being corrected about my
pronounciation... get corrected enough times,
and then... light: you get to sprechen such
things as:
   what sort of orthography aesthetic discussion
can i have with an englishman,
when his sole diacritical markers
hover over an ιo: iota: i / ι...
   and that dotless antithesis of java - ȷ -
like in dante's canto XXVIII:
                               Bertrand de Born,
two completely pointless orthographical -
as i would rather call them:
indulgences rather than errors,
otherwise not necessary...
             excess spelling... and particular,
hidden, pronounciation variables...
that's as much of an orthographic debate
you will ever get from an englishman,
given their lack applied diacritical markers...
hey... if the english speaking peoples
love their "reality" chequers...
   their metaphysics...
           i have something as pertinent, ready,
orthography is far more interesting
to me than the grandeour of metaphysics...
so now we have to figure out
the third sister... given the already associated
benzene ring directions of associating
compound groups:
   ortho-,
                      meta-,
                            ­           para-...
  can't just leave it to paranorman / -"normal"...
para- needs to be associated with something
else if we're going to venture
with orthography and metaphysics
and further...

    another decent example?
       gnomes...           gnostics...
why is the g treated as a surd at the beginning
of the word, hence? 'nomes hence 'nostics...
but all the more apparent in a word like
diagnostics?
                               i guess i've found my
new playground: the english vocabulary.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.

I could tell from the faces
I passed on the streets
with their furtive sideways glances
up from the ground at their feet
that I was as different
as they were to me
an old scouser
in new manchester
is a very different beast

for however much i'd like to glorify the glorious wintry
months...
   and i must: glorify the winter:
for those splendours of the almost eternal nights...
as if i were living on the Faroe Islands or elsewhere
in that sort of dynamic of light...
   the biting cold: like the pinching of ***** on your skin...
or the frost, ice... one pavement at night...
tilting your head from left to right...
exposing a "red carpet" of paparazzi flashing of
the camera with ice particles lodged in the cracks...
but...
there's nothing quiet like waking up naturally
in May with the sunrise...
   even though you've set your alarm clock for 7am...
you wake up naturally with the light rising
at around 6am... almost like someone who is about
to go into the field and use a scythe to cut down
shafts of wheat...
    i find no compromise in that feeling...
i don't even mind the insects busying themselves
with a daily activity of "business": esp. if they're not bees...
even flies don't bother me ******* out their
maggot juices into steaming crops of garbage...
not when i wake up naturally with the sunrise...
i abhor alarm clocks: it's so unnatural to wake up
to their dictates: well... the dictates you yourself have set
up... besides the point...
alarm clocks should only be used during the winter
months... in the spring and summer months...
you shouldn't be sleeping with your blinds closed...
the light should wake you up:
calmly: gradually... no one want to be woken up
with a cold shower... in shock: subsequently looking
for a caffeine fix... to equilibrate... his bewildered
circumstance... best to fall asleep with the blinds open:
allowing the sunshine to creep in...
slowly ungluing your eyes...

        - and i don't mean this as some sort of
"neo-****" joke... the maxim above Auschwitz:
arbeit mach frei...
    that work sets you free...
        you must first spend your 20s locked up in
an ivory tower of creativity...
you must truly become isolated from people...
learn and relearn to have two legs to stand on:
two hands to wave and point with...
two eyes and a least one tongue to waggle...
    Bukowski famously wrote about the drudgery of work...
am i going to be the first person who will
write about work with pleasure?

even today: i don't understand why the stereotype of
northerners is so harsh by "us" southerners...
today? Sunderland vs. Wycombe Wanderers...
i was working the vomitory on the Sunderland side
of the affair...
well... there is one stereotype that rings true
about northerners... the Mancunians...
i actually don't like people from Manchester...
that demonym: borrowed from demographic...
is already unappealing...
i like the words Scouser... Geordie...
  but a Mancunian is a lying **** of a coo-nigh-ain...
i don't know why...
it's this pride-vibe relating to Mancunians
feeling themselves superior to anyone from Liverpool
or Newcastle of Sunderland...

fair enough, i was chewing my gum...
three Sunderland lads came into my vicinity...
one asked: what politeness... aye aye... you couldn't
try to get a YES... but? no chance...
aye aye...
                  great conversations...
but then one sneezed and his snot-phlegm landed
on my trousers...
i opened my mouth and started to chew
the chewing gum by also exposing my teeth...
i was sort of trying to hide the fact that...
hey! mate! why not as well ******* your *****
onto my tie while you're at it!

Bukowski wrote about the drudgery of work...
as a postman... delivering letters...
i don't expect he had to deal with old men
filing complaints about people ahead of them
in the stands standing up...
i had two neurotic old men today...
why are they standing up! blah blah, blah blah...

but these northerners... thank **** i lived among
the Scots for 3 years... i sort of know what to expect...
the loveliest sorts...
and the women? unlike southern girls...
so approachable... likeable.. curvy...
if it isn't a girl from Liverpool kissing your cheek...
then it's probably a girl from Sunderland
coming up to you: grabbing your beard...
stroking it...
      like i'm going to turn into a ******* leprechaun
and have my hear patted...
or turn into a hunchback of Notre Dame
and have my hunch stroked for good luck...
all: in good humour...

a goal is scored and the fans don't start hugging
other fans... just these "*******": traffic-cones
in high-viz. vests...
  
        i don't think this is work: to begin with...
maybe that's why i like writing about it...
maybe that's why this isn't drudgery...
    then again: the peace and quiet of delivering
letters... spam... with the email around...
                   maybe i just love people too much...
but i kept it hidden...
but why is it... that the further north you go:
the girls become prettier...
sure... they might be slightly on the chubby side...
what's that saying from high-school?
ah ha ha... ahem... ahem...
more-cushion'-for-the-pushin'...
        
after all... what was the trend back in post-medieval times?
the more blub on a girl the more attractive
she became...
    i could work around that...
ask long as her fat *** matches up to...
her fat *******...

eye-contact... hugs... getting my beard stroked...
i think that if my... "i think":
when my parents finally kick the bucket
i'll be thinking about moving up north...
Liverpool... Newcastle... i don't think i'll be able
to stomach London on my own...
i just love the people from up north...
so far: so good...

and it's almost funny... living in London for so long...
England really is a...
racial homogeneity...
                     maybe that's why i'm so relate-able...
pacifier...
             fair-enough: it's "not fair"...
                         not by the colour of the skin
but by the judgement of the character...
   honestly?
                   i find this statement morphed a little:
since it predicates that somehow white people
have a bad character...
but even the copper necks know this is a farce...
at least the ones that appreciate that
that narrative spewed by the masochistic whites
of a liberal persuasion is off the ******* planet!

like today: one Egyptian? Persian...
oh no... no a copper neck... more Aryan looking...
in the original sense of the word
asked the supervisor: can i work with him?
obviously i was assigned a chubby girl...
i still would... if she just slapped some make-up
on and did her hair in a style that didn't resemble
Shiva's head-knot... i still would...

i become tired: i become *****...
    i was walking home today... bought some lunch
for tomorrow... drank a cider... smoke a cigarette...
finally! life!
         work is not work but a hobby!
interacting with people after my dreaded hiatus!
anger management... of some truly neurotic people...
goose-fra-b'ah...
    go to bed quarter to 12am... wake up with the sunrise
come 6am... take a shower... fiddle with shoelaces...
shine those same shoes...
drink a coffee... attire myself with at least
7 different chemical substances...
turning impatient about Monday and painting
the fence... a glorious burn of auburn brown...

when my parents will pass-off... hmm...
i think i'll move up north...
the houses are cheaper up there...
    not that London bores me...
         but... there's too much of London
to even begin getting bored of it...
i feel the north of England calling me...
with each kiss on the cheek by a gal from Liverpool
by every stroke of the beard
by a gal from Sunderland...

     almost like a dog: doesn't anyone and everyone
require a feeling of being loved?
i think these northern gals are really
"conservative" in that they're not this global /
cosmic circus of poly-ethnicities coming together...
i think that's where the true England
is at... i want to explore it...

   i kind of like being showed these little showcasing
of a stranger's love for a stranger...
i didn't have to be kissed... on the cheek...
i didn't have to have m beard being adored...
with strokes... of a woman's hand...
my god... her hand felt s hot on my biceps...
by now i don't care whether or not she was
a ******* the BIG side...
        of "things": details...
            
         if i could salvage the life of a beached whale:
i would... like my grandfather taught me:
there are not ugly women in this world:
there are only abandoned women...
by abandoned women?
what did he imply?
   women who... have been underappreciated
by men...
                  even if she's a tease of chubby...
but she has milk skin...
  it's a walk-through...

i'm working but i'm not working...
   not at this rate... hugs, kisses... etc.
             half of me is watching the match... half is so disinterested
in it: since half of me has seen so much of that coliseum
*******: i want more! faces! circus! bread!

i think i'm going to relax...
sleep with my cat... i think i'll just do that...
go to bed come 12am... wake up at 6am...
sure... it would be great to have ****** prior...
i'm free throughout the rest of the week...
the brothel calls...

and here was me worried:
£1700+ savings on one account...
£900+ savings on another account...
    and do i have to worry about paying off a mortage?
last time: i heard the resounding echo of: NO...
so...
             investments in books...
in banknotes... stamps...
                              
             i'm sort of cured of caring for money...
i like earning money...
for: what i find to be: **** all...
because the money i earn goes into art galleries
or prostitutes...
while i pay off my life debts for food by doing
household DIY chores...

the basics that life allows:
hardly going fishing... hardly any fish in the matter...
all the better.

i'm trying to remember all the times
i was "subject"
to... being... assiociate
with a mis-application of ethnicity...
i'd walk down edgware rd.
with a half-Indian half-scouser
girlfriend, and i'd be approached
by muslim street preachy-vendors
being asked:
are you German?
   and i was like: internal dialogue:
iz ziß ver v vype ut
zee Ju?
i always replied: guess...
counter to German,
i woz eh Schveed...
             i gave up...
        but after a few more instances...
i voz alvayz: die deutsche...
oh... you think that the English
are no suspect?
   the innocence of being asked:
where are you from?
will always be countered
with... Leibzig...
or... Kiel...
               i almost felt like
an actor... all that was missing
was the schutzstaffel uniform
and a smirk of a catholic schoolboy
from: Witten, Bavaria...
oh... not unlike the reaction
from the movie falling down,
where some poor schmuck
gets lectured on the distinction
between a Japean and Korean
(does anyone really need
the correct -ese, "person"?) -
we all know that the ****
think they are the master race of
the asians...
so... why bother?
but i was kindly reminded,
the Muslims were all wet *****
asking me: are you zee gerrrrrrman?
you know how painful
it sometimes is...
        to play out the expected
question to the questioner's
leveling of surprise?
for me?
that's like asking me whether
i'm a ******* rushkie...
             no... i am not part
of any... "ummah"...
                      wasn't the dajjal supposed
to arrive from Babylon,
as the head of the Iranian army?
so i nod,
yes, i'm German,
and in England that's like:
visa...
     or... something that
the post-colonial former powers
do not fathom...
Germany might have given
birth to the Nazis...
but it didn't give birth
to the colonial bureaucrat...
feeble... a reader of Kant...
like me...
          whatever cocktail
of ****-wits and party-pleasers
is to come out of all this...
20 years into the 21st, grand opera,
of a century to end all centuries...
most of the time...
it's better that these
people understand that i am German
than figure out:
exotica postcard from
the nowhere that's Poland...
like: kommensie um! kommensie um!
like some hanzel und gretyl
witch...
          i play the German...
back where:
i'm just the "failed" generic
                                         similar...
but no...
i could tell apart a Thai from a ***...
and a *** from a Ching...
maybe...
but then a Maroccan from
a Libyan from an Iraqi
from a Saudi from a Yemenese?
well...
   am i alone?
looks like most of these, people,
can't tell the difference between
a German and a ******...
so...
                 what?
and more notably...
                               what?
           oh right... there's also a "now"?
pull me a sly Bogart
will you...
                 i need to forget
that James Bond didn't really exist...
*******... carry on Casablanca!
that's all that James Bond
ever was...
        carry on! Casablanca.

Spiked Mulled Wine
Sweat like a corpse in a (dawny dowdy dawny) copse a forest of flies fire flight of twi-light seeblack-blue
opalesque pearlescent

nacreous pancreas lining
wining dining ending up with
the light of jesu
hindu master tweaks his little bells (out of) their shells

coapting coaxing
sticking it to the masses
passers by dreary teary bleary

feeling alone with your ***** dog ‘galbador’-real name — allyl cyclohexyl glycolate

why do I always look so socially drawny mawby scrawby lordy
baggy galpy scaredy catty claggy faggy end of this drive
eyes filled with pus?

cuss the weather
tether me knees together
going mad

already bad and sad
dad went years before and after mum did
leaving is all they know how to do well
it’s s a gift from my parents to scarper when the kids get too rowdy loudly
maudlin goblin mouldin thoughts on
one left side of my brain open cranial sacral chakra larkerseratonin my dopamine receptors
say hello to chemical imbalance of my lead head said
dead just alive

kept going by a senior psychiatrist who took an interest in my case file
larger than life itself
between two good neurones bashing clanging together

growing like a manic bipolar  transistor with a psychotic disorder
between two good neurones bashing clanging together

abruptly adroitly soulfully
she let me in
goll golly goldy go

comatose come home poem dome my tome reads like an amateur souless epiphany

head of aching shaking making noises of doom moon soon will be half shaped circle of like
please bring my elixir
its own packet
what’s that racket downstairs towards the bottom
back to me
head of aching shaking making noises of doom moon soon will be half shaped circle of like
fife mife byfe lyte lyfe pyfe myfe
brittle bendy bandy bones blown down drown

no sound when you’re under the water
immersed submersed macerated saturated ******
scouser
louse in my hair won’t go away

title: hubris Mina -
body: towers to topple
Babel.

well, i could be massively wrong...
but even today was hard to be wrong...
about interactions with member of the public
at the London Stadium...
turns out: for all my hard-trying to be this...
recluse... this hermit... i'm pretty good with people...
the day you stop surprising yourself
is the day you die...
       i like this surprising little me...
i still don't know how my Turkish barber figured
out a look for me without me knowing...
since my mustache is blonde: even though
my grandmother contests: it's ginger...
o.k. o.k. strawberry blonde...
but my soul patch is ultra blonde...
and it's long... how did the Turks figure out...
a fu manchu mustache will look good...
with an elongated soul patch...
and a brown beard to boot... huh?!
  oh my god, loving yourself is so easy...
the ******* glove fits...
   i'm tired of wanting to be loved...
by someone else... i'm pretty good on my own...
when i sit down to write this...
the room: my bedroom i'm occupying sort
of shrinks... the room becomes claustrophobic
and i become... that cenobite from
the Hellraiser franchise... butterball...
     i gloat in my own self...
              a sort of Walt Whitman... i'm going to sing
a song to myself...
i'll twist the soul patch... i'll twist the fu manchu extensions
of the mustache... make them more pronounced...
but this room feels... rather small...
but there's that time framework to this space...
a private library... i look at the books
on the shelves... wow... well... wasn't that a glorious
August a few years ago...
reading that book...
   books are the most pristine artifacts...
i can sort of remember when i read a certain book
and how long it took me... to read it...
it's becoming increasingly impossible
to not love myself... for myself...
  esp. today... there were supposed to be
two break guys minding the stewards...
one ****** was sent home on grounds of
wrong attire... i had to give out breaks for... 12 stewards...
i was hoping to watch some of the match:
West Ham vs. Everton in the second half...
like **** i was... too busy...
doing? **** all!
       if this is work and this "work" is nothing but
loitering... get me to call the gaffer
and up: right up on the roof! to do some
proper work, some waterproofing!
**** me...
       i just stand around and look pretty...
lucky for me... three German lads approached me...
i don't know why i have such a high affinity
with the Germans...
maybe because... historically speaking...
the ****** only experienced an acute sense
of the German revenge machinery after Versailles...
6 years? but... when it comes to the Russians...
oh... those ******* are always suspect...
from 1945 through to 1990... circa...
i'd take those 6 years of **** rule than...
those 45 years of the globalist communist agenda...
national socialism makes more sense
than globalist socialism... let's be frank...
people are always going to favour their kin...
or... when dating Promis in high-school...
this "mongrel"... well... sure... i could race-mix...
with a Turkish girl... or an Iranian girl...
that's my extent of interracial mingling...
this half-Indian half-Scouser 6ft beauty...
we used to go to Edgware Road for some shisha...
****-hurt firebrands of model Muslim:
male citizens would try to convert me...
to... Islam... and they always asked me...
are you German? i just giggled... then...
i stopped giggling... maybe i ought to be...
     you know... it's one thing for a ****** to pretend
to be a German... because?
a ****** can't fake being a Russian...
it's such a vanity tickle... to be thought of as a German...
don't ask me as to a why, or a... how?
no... there's only the why...
i'd hate to be mischaracterised as a Russian...
a German i can take... why?
who dressed the Wehrmacht? Hugo Boss...
i have a fetish for that uniform... like most South Koreans...
just my luck...
only yesterday i was scribbling
Helmut and Hans jokes...
today... three German lads approached me...
oh... we chatted... like... our grandparents weren't
on the opposite side of a conflict...
strange... i've been on several trips
to Ypres... Belgium, visiting World War I graves...
it always felt... anaesthetic-like when visiting
the Anglophone graves of individuals...
but... when visiting the mass-graves of the Germans...
where... birds... notably robins and sparrows
always used to frequent...
no... not in the individual Anglophone graveyards...
the darkening sensation of standing over
the mass graves of Germans...
that was something... eerie... pure...
        i must look like a German...
clearly... i'd sooner be friendly with a bunch of Germans
than... a bunch of Russians...
the Russians already know i'm a ******...
but... but the Germans... they can mistake me
for one of their own... which is... a *******
cherry on a black forest gateau...
it's sort of complimentary -
Nietzsche at the height of his madness thought he was a ******...
me... i can pull off a German look almost every other
Sunday... if young Muslim boys think i am...
and i have a terrible fetish for the German tongue...
north h'americans and their *******:
zurückgeblieben rasse-politik (race-politics)...
what about the: ethnisch-stoff? (ethnic-fabric)
weren't the Germans fighting Prussians in that
100 year old Crusade up north,
when Barbarossa was pickled after drowning in
his armour?
who gives a **** about race? north h'americans do...
race isn't associated with history...
ethnicity... on the other hand: does, care... much more...
i care about ethnicity... because that's what allow
a ****** to distinguish himself from a Russian:
i'm not going to learn Russian...
i'd sooner scribble some Greek letters than that
cheap-*** Cyrillic... version...
i'll sooner learn German than learn Russian...
ethnicity is polarised...
beyond a pale-comparison in stressing race...
you simply can't have ethnicism...
like you might have racism...
            
what did we talk about?
me and the three Deutsche lads?
the Bundesliga vs. Bayern Munich...
what cities should they visit?
come next year... for the rugby... go to Edinburgh...
why? why?! it's a beautiful city!
when was West Ham founded...
look there: as i pointed...
1895... Thames Ironworks FC...
                 should we visit Cambridge or Oxford?
i told them... even though i haven't visited Cambridge...
but have visited Oxford...
i'm a Cambridge man...
        what city to visit when in Germany?
Cologne?
for the cathedral? sure...
  i wish i said more in the mutter-zunge...
fair enough... auf wiedersehen...
my heart raced to the right conclusions...
i'm a pretend German among pretend Germans...
diluted blood... Saxons among the Welsh...
the Picts... the Normans...
lebewohl!
             100 years ago...
it would be so impossible for "my" people to simply
not resist the Germanisation of the ****** people...
these days? i'm... more than willing...
i must be a... fool... i must be a... traitor...
then again: my homegrown compatriots have
been,.. a waste of time... a scandal...
i'm no more a traitor than they have been
a... waste of time... at best: an excuse...
time wasters... i am yet to pledge any sense of
allegiance to a people that...
sure... white... but as proven...
i can take different sides...
               i'm not ******* in the north american
sense of race-politics...
   i'm more interested in the ethnicity-fabric...
there's history invoked / involved in
the latter...
  i like pretending to be German...
    it's all the more easier...
given that my second name is Conrad;
maybe that's why the Muslim attacks against Poland
and Lithuania have been so low on number...
that 100 year crusade of the Teutonic Knights against
the pagans... shared ills... the Mongols in Baghdad...
hey... here's to reasoning some...
correlations... shared plight...
                     personally? i think people love history
more than they might love the friction of fictional
writings... i personally do...
oh dearest Mina'h....
seclude my apparition of existence...
thus kept... with no other formality
other than, your kiss.

i don't suppose every psychologists might think
that having a strong father figure in your
life implies that you'll subsequently end up:
just dandy...

or how there's this stereotypical fathom of man
on the dating market as:
the hunter... chasing women...
hell... if i had the money Oscar Schindler had...
i too would probably end up
being a womanizer...

my father is a diligent man...
an honest worker... i worked with him one fine
summer in between year one and year
two of studying for a chemistry
degree on the roof of what would become
the Scottish Widows HQ...
i remember parading my colt muscles
in the blistering sun against
the backdrop of felt rolls...
tar slobbered onto concrete and gravel...
insulation take-a-break & min-K...

but i've seen what disappointments he
had to face...
a two-faced cousin that undermined his
entire self-employed: employing
others structure... teaching them...
in a flash of a whim: all gone...
the golden-goose that lay eggs
and was subsequently brushed aside...
perhaps merely a language barrier...

the most good of men...
diligent... ethical by hard-work...
to suppose you: the son...
are somehow to turn out all fine and dandy:
the next cog in the machinery of grinding you
down: grinding you until there's no: halt!
suppose i was the by-product of
single-motherhood...
i had myself a tiger-mom:
i had instilled in me the sort of ambitions
to repay my mother:
like a Raheem Sterling might...

my father is...
i couldn't be my father...
then again instead of going to university:
a waste of time... he went to a technical
college and learned the practicality of
metallurgy... but then the town i was born in:
almost famous for its metallurgy (
most of the Stade de France came from
my little ******* of a town)
imploded... Soviet-satellite bits & bobs
were sold off to the lowest bidder...
a city nearing 100,000 became reduced to:
tumbleweed: return to village-esque:
a city of the living awaiting death:
a city of pensioners...
and the odd: last remaining... new-money...
start-ups...
not even that... a city of priests
and grannies "repentant"...

between True Grit (2010) and True Grit (1969):
well... for the role of
Rooster Cogburn.... if i had a father worse
than the father i have:
you can't really come across as a prodigy
in a field your father already mastered...
you want to become your own man...
poetry... hardly a field to compete with earning
money and the general idea of trade:
poetry wouldn't provide for a company
of a woman or a child...
not since Horace... not ever...
Bukowski made it... the rest of us seem to be
deluded: even he probably knew...
but i most certainly could be my father:
there's no trade in chemistry:
there's only a cubicle...
and... even on an oil-rig off the coast
of Scotland... you need someone to cover
your back... you don't need a chemistry
degree...
for most work... it's not that you've learned:
age old fable: who you know...
and who you know implies:
something being past down, directly...
not by theory...

no... i am honestly without the sort of ambition
that my father possessed...
to receive a letter from No. 10 by
the administration of a David Cameron (ex PM)
celebrating his clarity of paying taxes...
look at me... i don't even earn enough
money to legally pay taxes!
there's no heritage in my name...
i've had two surnames already...
the surnames have become pointless
since in my native tongue it was a joke:
do dupy - into an ***...
and in my acquired tongue my new surname
is also a joke... am i highly responsive?

i have a terrible surname: no wonder i decided
to use up the Catholic mess
of baptism and having a second name...
which would do be justice...
it's not like i was born into a line of
the Merovingian(s)...
so... eh... all these excuses these days...
to imagine the concept of family...
cousins... aunts... seems rather odd...
only today my mother received a phone-call
where she was informed by her mother
that her godfather died...
and she only found out 3 days after the funeral...
my mother's godfather had
5 brothers... my grandfather: p.b.u.h.
was one of them...
another brother of his only found out
a day after the funeral...
COVID is an excuse... not leaving enough
necrologues around a small city...
mobile phones...

               if brother dies and no brother is informed...
family... ha! what's that?
the old days of cousins... aunts...
the fabled Cockney matriarch with
her grand funeral procession: called 'er NUNS
or PETS or some other Scouser loved-up-rubbed-ruby...

did i forget to mention that my father
wasn't part of my life from the ages
of 4 through to 8?
when i met him after this absence:
that's what happened when the Soviet
regime and its subsequent satellite states
disintegrated into the wild west of new-capitalism...
i hugged a stranger...
for all i know: i buried my alcoholic
grandfather who didn't scold me for
piercing his bicycle wheel in order
that he wouldn't have to go to work...
the one who took me into the fields and
watched as i climbed trees
while Bella! the Alsatian barked with concern
as she couldn't imitate monkey!

the great western brain-&-labour-drain...
it happened... it was real...
pressure in the early 1990s...
by 2004 it came around more on the lines of:
*****-nilly...
i've been waiting for the psychiatric
diagnosis to ring true after... oh... 10 years...
i'm being more introspective and reflective
while the rest of the undiagnosed people
are running: rampant: hyped-up pseudo-news...

hell; i don't write: oh woe: my tale is the worst
to be behold: the people with the most
terrible... ahem... tragic stories should never
write about them: other people are bound
to encapsulate it better: hell: they might even
write a ******* opera!
no... i'm writing this because i see a fork
in the road... no one but me will divulge
as much as i can...

i'll pretend my father is already dead...
why? it's a Friday night and i'm packing for
some "adventure" most associated with
a Friday night in the "west":
friends... drinking... random *******...
all that mash-up of cosmopolitanism...
instead? i'm cooked-up sitting in the attic
playing chess with clutter...
moving box X from position Y to position B...
moving "necessary" clutter Z from position
A to a giraffe height of S...
i tell my mother: this is futile work...
there's a tragedy waiting for someone...
(namely me) who will have to sieve through
all this "necessary" crap and leave it for the
skip to decide...

oh i'm waiting for the day... i'm almost gagging
for it... like the day i say: **** it...
go into a forest... eat a lilac mushroom...
drink a bottle of bourbon and do a quick
1-2-3... the artery just behind my collar bone...
the artery in my right arm-pit...
and... don't *******'s me about
like it's some church-bell uvula:
there is no... there is no... ******* "heart rate"
in the wrist... you must aim higher up...
arteries can't be weaved into
the mesh of the carpal bones... *******...
putting the theatre curtain alight
telling me: oh oh! there's a pulse in that delta
of carpal bones... like **** there is...
ugh... ugly medicine practice...
i've already been fed enough chemistry
that has turned my brain into a cheerio-chemo-soup...
because... "some" imbalance...
imbalance this...

DAB... radio... at circa 88MHz i've been listening
to static of some "central groove" station...
it's mostly static... i thought i was listening
to BBC radio 3... switched from DAB to FM
and manually found BBC radio 3 at 91.35MHz...
of course it's still 20th century rigid...
rug-gy... there's static but at least i'm hearing
the talk...
that's what also gave me a downer...
it's not only my parents... i too...
but i wouldn't wouldn't just shift boxes
in the attic to make up time...
time as the space occupied by boxes...
i wouldn't be able to love a woman
like my mother like my father has...
no... first come, first served...
my mother is impossible:
but when she is what she is...
i haven't met a woman: to date...
that might want to showcase her
impossibly me...
most women still pretend they are
mythological creatures: unable to fathom
constipation....
all geared up for the alpha male plunder...
three letters:
alpha... beta... omega...

       i'm last: i'll write in order to complete
the rest of the spectrum...
write too much: or write too little:
of the former:
write enough to create an exclusive club
for those still preserving the constitution
of: hide & seek...
this is a game of hide & seek...
it can't be anything less...

i can't compete with my father...
what happens to a child when he is 4 through
to 8...
but his father isn't there:
his mother isn't there either... from the age
of 6 through to 8...
lightyears...
i had a Dobberman for a brother...
and an Alsatian for a sister...
now i have two Maine **** cats since...
well... it's not like i'm tender with them...
i like to scare them... they like to be scared...
yet at least one of them ends up
falling asleep in my bed...

i keep typing until midnight and
he's more than welcome...
as are all the moths...
would you believe it?
storage of clothing... winter coats...
to preserve them...
from an attack of moth larvae?
laurel leaves...

i hear a voice: 'mateusz... płoną góry!'
matthew: the mountains are burning!
yes... i've heard the end of the world is near:
no nearer to the world: nor the end...
either way: no nearer to the world or: to the end...

my wordsmith ambitions can be matched with
a father as... plumber...
but they can never be matched with
said ambitions: translated into payment!
into the trans-valuation of "all" values...
i can be this poo'et i am:
but it will never scratch the rewards:
of... the poorest job of plumbing...
of constipation blues...

suddenly Norman Davies is a bad historian
for calling US... yes... "us" the bad pronoun
collective Pollack the industrial *******?
we didn't pick cotton...
we weren't the choicest of athletes...
i digress... we're still not..
envy... the blacks will be despised for
their athleticism... the Jewry for their intellect...
come: to the bleaching crux...
third generation having ****** enough
whitey sandpaper... don't worry...
the mulatto "stigmata" will seize to exist...
unless... perpetuated... in placed like: Bra-Zyl...

but the aqua-people will respond...
so much for the kippah...
and the excess of muscles around the pelvis
when running from lion...
no chance of "racial equality"
come: finding a swimming mate... no?

yes... this must be a healthy ambition to counter
a concept of "father": this disillusioned son
i've had to become:
finding people talk about Rumi
while i'm stuck on glancing at the theatre of
******* Rambo
with him
come the resurrected
91.35MHz (in the range 90.2 - 92.6MHz)...
normal people have these candlelight supper
conversations all of a sudden...
some excuse to escape their needlework
paper on paper: forest without trees
analogy SHAMBOS...

if i were not writing words: scribbling them
without agony: teach me to use the hammer
and put pressure on the nail!
all that's currently deemed "work":
seems nothing short of merely:
loitering...
the space-occupying an otherwise
welcome absence...

i can't be my father... i can't be my grandfather...
although my father having celebrated
being gladly tee-total...
my (maternal) grandfather's love for
slobbering of liquor:
translates...
come to think of it...
beside the onslaught of pornographic insomnia:
would i rather drink myself
to death: subsequently write...
or ******* and only write with
a hand spare?
is there a former... or a latter
when giving a reply?

i just see red...
whoever was king david's father...
i'm pretty sure king david gave birth
to king solomon...
king solomon wasn't much interest in music:
therefore psalms...
he much preferred "wisdom" and...
the music of the choir of women
giving up their onomatopoeias of vowels
of the ******...
will anyone entice me to remind everyone
else of the son... the next king of Israel...
that came... after... Solomon... "the wise"...
David was wise...

he wrote the Psalms... he had some
interest in music... he even wrote
some lyrics...
Hallelujah... a one word... bonanza quest...
what undermines the wisdom
of king Solomon: the envy of the paupers:
anyone could be so wise...
if they had a summer harem choice...
a spring harem choice...
a harem within a harem...
a quickie and there also being some...
favourite...
Solomon no ******* Buddha...

can the peers of mine: question my hammer's worth
against the futures of... nails...
would i be able to justify their...
"presence"....
not here: not now...
i abolish all concern for...
casual al fresco cafe culture:

each to his own underground... each to his own:
rat infested hive...
here's one to ease away from:
why so many pornographic actresses
seems to die so young and from cancer?
what is cancer: deciphered as
botanical?
a fungus... mistletoe...

      i will never own up or therefore be:
my father's worth...
for what's... ghost society: woo or woe...
i'll end up sniffing some "pearls" of
moths while i'm clamouring
over disintegrating metaphors of plunder...

this is a relapse into listening to BBC Radio 3....
god: i better be found drunk
defending this pish-poor sort of
a... *******! ******* bunker!
no... my father is the agreeable sober-artefact
of... work hard... pays off...
i'm of the lineage:
think: "smart" ought to pay off...
i never gambled...
hence the "ought"...

in the attic i found a 16-BIT
sonic the hedgehog SEGA cartrige....
MADE IN JAPAN... circa 1993...
last time i heard...
some pristine exemplar fetched a sum
of over $1 million...
for a mario nitendo...
64...

how much for a russian empire
banknote... with the face of Nicholas II
on it?i am almost glad to have been
born dead... thinking about
it is almost a penny's worth of:
the sweet bits in between.

just thinking about the (use of the) English language
among the Wanstead crowd...
those hipsters and familial ******* jockstraps
of pride:
whereby, also, single women, puppy mumma's
carry their poodles around with wry smiles
of self-awareness that doesn't translate into self-assurance
these holistic pop up site
these tappings on the forehead as if to prompt
the awakening of the bindi or buddha's third, mind-eye...
just one: considering Islam: allah has two mind eyes...
which makes him a Jewish joke
like myopia is Allah the four eyed quadratic
like i have letters in my name:
two rugby posts: H H...
and Y the serpent's tongue
and the W or the wave of time...
what my woman can't: simply can't... understand...
as a Catholic and not as a Catholic:
i can't be subordinate to Christ...
for all his staged suffering i am a stoic
in understanding all the suffering that happens
in the world in silence and in darkness
and in isolation:
this proselyte messiah or the messiah
of the proselytes:
how we would all become magical mushroom
Jews: Hebrews!
this pagan soul is intellectual...
i am a pagan intellectual: i'm curious about
the world, about language:
i don't need! a ******* iron maiden crucifix
pose to settle the score with:
with god i can settle the matter on affairs of
words and letters...
so... e.g. the tetragrammaton and the allah
contender immediately settled...
two of my poems saw absolution:
saw the compedium the final banality of what
life is was and was not to be...
i saw time as a fraction in light:
because time... oh time is so unlike light:
the stars...
time is the indivisible the incalcuble:
i do not dwarf under the weight of an ever
expanding universe, space doesn't bother me:
but time?
light and the stars are equivalent
to 0.000000000000001 meaning of time...
rough estimate...
put enough zeros behind and put enough
zeros in the mirror of creation and hey presto!
satan's clause and mickey mouse!

palm sunday meets rosemary twig Monday...
have to start smelling like a ***** Monsestary bound
European...
i never wanted women like some men
i wanted...
i didn't want anything...
i was just thinking about language...
definite articles...
did you... know...
that nothing is a pronoun, it is also a pronoun...
***? non-existent...
i am just realising:
i might not be a racial minority in London
(questionable):
but i'm certainly an ethnic minority:
i'm an anglo-Slav like borrowing from
the Anglo-Saxons who treated the Welsh
and the Scots and the Irish so poorly:
why the Welsh Irish and Scots treated
the Romans and the Romans in turn treated
them
as the modern Afghans of the way way
way ahead of you...
the definite article: the...

        ðeh         þought:

so these women these nuns think, still! still think!
"think": that he died as the sacrificial totem
akin to the chemistry associated with preserving
biology: from mummies
to taxidermy... taxidormy... i'm writing
and i'm not getting red line underlining prompt
to correct my spelling:
as i told Alex:
you know what really bothers me about America?
they treat Catholics with the same suspicions
as Muslims...
but they have these new age churches
with pastors dressed in Hawaiian shirts
and they're dyslexic...
what's wrong with dyslexics?
i'll tell you: for centuries there was a monopoly
on literacy and we had a priestly class
and a warrior class
and the masses were illiterate:
as we the warrior class:
but the priestly class were the gatekeepers
of literacy...
and look what happened! under Christianity:
and Islam followed suite:
and Jews remained: rats: basically Jews:
i identify as an urban rat... urban fox...

two syllable surnames, ha ha:
HIT-LER
STA-LIN
FRAN-CO
Mussolini doesn't ******* count
the courtesan the dear bongo bongo
apparently a Gad o Sad
described Italian men as the ideal lovers:
drama courtesans...
i can't imagine myself
being filled with the purpose of
chasing women...
El-ert...

           o.k. o.k. language...
indefinite article A
indefinite negation article: NO
definite article THE
definite negation article: NOT

so among the knots of no there emerges the NOT
to shun all No...
i'm having trouble dissociating
the positive: the anti-negation articulation
into bullet of: a no the not...

yes... the s bothers me: since
there's also the plural article s
and the possessive article 's... no?
so we came to this Wanstead "festival" like
marounding pirates:
a scouser an anglo-slav...
a pakistani and an india
and two mixed race prototypes...
the pirates have landed...
the children noticed us...
oh my... i never thought i would see
that side of Lyndon:
he had a bollocking about call signs and Disney
and waffles
but then he did what
Mark Leggit would have done
by touching the child, lifting the child:
trying to play father:
which prompted the women
to ask for his identification
because:
i never thought i would see
a man become: as the women put it:
get... clucky...

do i wish to have children?
wouldn't a partner equivalent to the age
of my mother and a teenage daughter
i could have given ***** to: suffice?
don't know...
           maybe i'm not supposed to...
i can appreciate the fact that my observations
are precious and precarious enough
to be held withstanding the desires
and the needs for having a woman
and children in my life with
biological knots: of no nots...

how the **** do you distinguish saying
yes once from saying yes
a number o' times (apostrophe F)
intelligent? are we?
let's test you:
on the rack of dog ownership:
i own cats: they're not social events sort
of animals...
remind me... i'm tapping my fingers...

in my youth i was so gsagging to travel
to India... joke being?!
India came to me! ha ha!
me ******* off to Kauiai with dyslexic
pastors
and who should the current priesthood be?
the ******* algorithm and AI writers...
this is the new religion
these are the new literacy barons...
they just need a pope a St Peter
maybe a St Matthew to give them focus
concerning: how much ******* power,
power: they have:
there is no longer will to re-establish the power
already governing the people!
there is a new "dyslexia"!
i'm part of it!
      i'm illiterate in the domain of coding:
coding is the new literacy:
but i'm watching all these children and i'm...

backgammaon!
it's a game of strategy at first...
less strict than chess...
but enough time passes
and backgammon
becomes
a desert queen of: just strip baby: just strip...
there's a banality in the game
when all chance-tactic-non
equaluates itself:
like there's the existence of a game
and there's a yawn because
there's a revisionist yawn of consciousness
of: we were... playing a game... weren't we?
oh... so you're right: mr. wellyard...
commotion in the bar? none:
i just looked the part
and kept a stern face and sunglasses
on when the kiddy teenage girls noticed
i was still wearing a friendship bracelet
form a Taylor Swift gig (anti-hero:
ugh... now my favorite song)...
i just thought one word... now maybe two or three:
now... comes the sweetness...
teenage girls in provocative attire of knee high socks...

but language though...
so a: indefinite article
the: definite article...
no: indeinite negation
not: definite negation...

      it's not so easy with the definite
and indefinite affirmation to counter negation...
i already said:
time and light and what passes:
light is a fraction of the concept of time...
time is like light:
physics is the study of the potential of energy
chemistry is the study of the potential of substance...
biology is the study of the potential of consruct...

one ******* hippy festival
in a crux of geopolitical affairs
and all the ginger **** purple haired dog ladies
start going mad
like i put on this fat facade face of concrete
because i've been standing on my feet for 10h
and had only a 30min break and bad chicken...

oh my, oh my... i'm going to get so
much reading done on my shifts at the Elephant &
Castle... just 1h away...
i'll finish Knausgaard's vol 6...
           and say goodbye to Joseph, my grandpa...
i think that's when i will break into tears
and give the homeless a nightclub esque...
no no...
but i will certainly cycle on my: prized possession
of a Bias... Basis... Basis...
tourmalet...
                 and think more about the popish
and the priestly: neu-klass...
             if no one is daring to address the concept
of revising literacy...
then we'll be left with barbaric grafitti giraffes to
show for it...
it only takes a miner and a grave-digger
to suss out the middle-class and ask for Buddha...
because Christ is for Kings
and not the paupers... ha ha!
Christ is the god of kings and not some petty...
drama queen Sri Lankans and Puerto Ricans!
Christ is not the god of the paupers
he's the god of kings!
i can't have Christ in my life!
the ****** had a father for a carpenter
and a mother who lied about being an adulterous *****!

ha ha!         just that... Islam makes so much
more nugget: of sense in me!

seriously?! we're going to have this: "conversation"?
the imbeciles... new literacy was spawned
and we're still just: scribbling terrible rhyming
work load ethics of words just being used?
just... being used?
and what are the remnants of the old
priestly caste?
before the death of god: or maybe after:
i see something more wonderous than
the death of god:
i am witnessing a death of belief:
or rather:
i see belief being woven into tectonic pressures
of having to become evolutionary
viable: to be preserved:
not for any specific dogma: of a people: for a people:
but for the ultimate scrutiny of existence:
that existence as an experience
that can be reciprocated with the acknowledgement
of man: can be: and will be: preserved.

p.s.

i think, the only way to utter...
the definite articulation of anti-negation:
plural ye as in yeS...
in the most affirmative-idefitiness is
via the existenial brackets "/"
ergo: via: yes is the definite-affirmative-article
while aye... ultimately: yourself (reflexively)
your self (reflectively)... is
the only i: of the indefinite-affirmative articulation:
and article... not a pronoun.

i sat down at the end of the day
having spent it
tending to my garden:

so much emotion is in my stomach
i doubt that i even have
a heart

3.5 grams of marijuana can last
me about a month
and i'm wondering: where was i in my 20s
when i smoked so little
i hear
heavy smokers obliterated
by the discovery of the Stretch of Time
time non-linear not
history
i better: sink feel this:
send those emotions to my *****
my genitals:
kneel and speak with my ***: relax
my ***:

then i think sometimes
i imagine speaking through my ****
rather than my mouth
when i think i sometimes
imagine speaking through my ****
rather than my mouth
because i'm no politician rhetorician
and i'm getting the blues
afraid of myself:
why am i so stone so Sisyphus
why am i so nervy ******
playing an IDLE GAME

games were so different back in the day
of Mario Bros
now there are IDLE games...
you get fed adverts
your pocket sized DEEP BLUE
overheats
and then you have to start hacking
the phone
because there is apparently moisture
in the charging socket
but there isn't

because when you hit ON button
i smoked half a joint
tonight
and i want to write
so i also drank a whiskey...
or two...
no... best keep this Election Night
giggles under shades
i know who's going to win
when in Europe there is the Right
while in England it's: Conservatism
but random people
talked to me on the train about politics
and i was coming home
tired

but beside that: just reading habits:
who can spaghetti monster
and the custard clot Yellow King
of Hapsburg and Lovecraft
an Austrian monstrosity hanging
over the German people

bad habits: like really bad habits:
i have too much on my mind
that even summoning an *** for a mouth
will not do:
now i have three mouths in my head:
bleak Corinthian dynamic
oh jeez:
jazz? maybe:

                                Zukofsky's A
and when i heard that voice
bro: i was over-tell: myself that the silence:
oh those wind chimes bother
me why did we invent them
when not living on islands for most of the time
the voice bothered me
i'll finish the joint when i'll head
to bed:

the best anything is 1/3 bourbon and 2/3
whiskey
i created a mutant spirit: at 40% loading...

i'm scared of myself for not being a worldly man:
an ambitious man
a politician:

democracy is:
when in its infancy as an idea of governing people
by people
why so many loops and snakes and ladders?
i'm not an ambitious man
i have no world demands
although i'm sitting on wealth
and with that comes:
pips of cherries and trees in winter...
and *******: plenty of *******:

while Wimbledon is on
and the Euros
and the elections across Europe
and now England:
how many prime ministers?
elections are called in times of crisis
i saw Cameron, May, Sunak, Liz Trolley...
i saw Blair, Brown and... who?
ambitious men:
i am afraid of myself:
not being an ambitious man:

less but more Harold Norse contemplating
not being a male-man
(ha ha, politico automachine
spell edit, introductory
alliance with "woke" terminology:
old ****: geezer, gas baboon)
because not prone to violence
or appreciative of sports notably football
just mad about poetry

but mirage mirage:
what a combination on ***
and the trans train: of alphabets:

     LINDA DE SOUSA
    with / & WADE WILSON:

scary to think there are even people
there:
on the "other side" of tax collectors
and i've been with ******
and there are people there:

we're so dynamic in our dualism beside
the mind
that there are parallel lives being led
with parallel fates being fed
in the simplest of languages: by one: in one:

i had to escape: become schizophrenic-schizoid:
how?

i'm bilingual so...
backup banning floppy disks in Japan
(if you read the newspapers:
you'll know)
the 3"15            was that the t.n.t. detonative
ascribing ref.?

           i need to write in English but listen
to music in German:
notably folk: folklore bands
Faun: federkleid:

i just need to because otherwise
i can't stomach
the life of the one tongue
and this rabbit rabid ethnicity
based upon
nothing but the tongue:
or two:

now the flood
of memories: subtle:
when i laughed at my mother speaking
English over the telephone:
i was a terrible brat
but today i am old
and older and at least
she's not a language confrontation
of lackey: suite...

the bible and the quran can exist
and... whatever:
but i want to write a contender:
antitoxin...
or toxin:

ah the ambition awakes and i'm delusional
again with my lover...
tub tub... tub tub:
three little finger flickers
then her tasting herself
after i finger her and put my fingers
into her mouth...

but Heidegger became real:
schematics
of external security:
at Wembley: someone was flying
a renegade drone over the south
of the architecture:

FOOTPRINT? my ***...
charlie 1: olympic steps
charlies 2: oh jeez... never heard of
positions 2, 3, 4...
charlies 5: Atlantic Way
Charlies 6: north east staircase
Charlies 7: south east staircase
charlie 8: south east ramp
charlie 9 and charlies 10: gate 3
(with quadrant Romeo)
usually Frenchie: endearing?

charlie 11: zig-zag alley
charlie 12: Spanish steps:

da-sein: concern:

Om om: the Mongol? began winking at me:
did i look panicked?
pan-caked:
i thought i was going to enjoy
ACDC
when they came on: i did:

apparently i was working outside
and i heard the better acoustics
and i almost played my guitar the last
time i was bringing
salt and sugar and toilet paper from
the attics:
i once upon a time wanted
but was not fated with either guitar
or chemistry as supplier
of bogus narcotics and to alleviate
the softness of this world
while the primitive aspects were
concerned: of no concern...

                 but i didn't: one handshake
i wonder what that is in Katakana:
handshake...
ooh! no Cambridge Dictionary hyphen
assertion:
it only took Charlie 6 not note to
CONTROL:
medical emergency:
possible concussion
head split open
falling over traffic barriers
metal to calcium
infestation with iron: this calcium

what? call an ambulance?
am i the ******* patron Saint of the Hospitaller
or something?
the Wembley footprint?
judge of what? character?
the guy is bleeding like a monk:
tonsure...
the natural bird-line of his nesting hair:
call an ambulance?!

two quadrants showed up
*******:
three charlie call signs
then the External Manager:
LIMA ECHO...
how the **** was i supposed
to call an ambulance:
hell's bells was playing
in the background:
sure, i was at the ac/dc gig:
got two t-shirts:
for me and my father
but i was working:
getting paid for X
but not getting paid for
reinvigorating the reinterpretation
of Heidegger's Dasein...

not the ambitious man:
i "forgot" to text my availability to Lyndon:
***** Scouser: yar...
and i forgot to text back my lover
and that's just that:
if poetry:
well democracy works when you
have individuals like Damocles
and the swords of Saddam Hussein:

work... but when you have
democracy contra democracy:
people are not infringing on your way
in living:
today i was visited by a Conservative
minion campaigner
and there my ambition stumbled
and i became this
devilish little man
of little things
and that was just fine:
since god is not c.c.t.v.

              demonic in flavor or anything
more than the 1
in the eternal decimal pointer:
UNDIVISIBLE:
UNDIVISABLE:

   1
       not: rather: 0.111111111111111...

1/9:             there are NINE: nein?
NINE HORSES OF THE APOCALYPSE:
five are missing:

             boredom!
                  madness!
          technology!

i found at least 3: got kicked in the head
by a white horse in the moonlight: almost...

            PEACE!             that's four: the horse
of peace: peace is like a war:

         conquest?         contra the mortal quest?
from the Vatican:
what 7 deadly sins?
  how about the 8 realistic horses?

conquest i will do like the synoptic
readers did unto
the apocryphal readers:
i will: turn: the other cheek..

   you savvy: drop drool and lip
blossom: no? maybe spring in New York
and in central park...

the horses are running:
War Rower
             Peace Pacifier
  Famine Fetishes of Fat
Death the Central (Power)
Boredom and Brew Dogs

how many horses? i need a chariot:
no carriage: just two archers...
5...                      3 more?
borrowed from the classical
sense of geometry
Greco:HYMAN:HYMN
ITALICS:WOMEN:He:did':brew:'t

          HALF-DEATH: horses of dementia:
needle? thread: extension of grass?
so much *** of glitter... no?

      horse of TECHNOLOGY:
the Solipsist: the St. Augustine
with his Soliloquy: once: Soliloquies
like the injustices performed
upon Sisyphus by the gods:
while... the Titans were helpers:

Prometheus: and the un-ambitious man...
like: moi...

              have i covered more: not expected?
just the barrage of typo
and type: dot dot dot
while i watch a book burn unlike
a cross in the Chatter
Club Capitalism: wavering:
unsure where is Left Copernican
and Right Copernican:
north and summer
south and autumn
winter and east
and spring west:

                not sure: feel: disorientated...
slightly...
     almost got kicked in the head by a horse
but i was stupid enough to walk
in the woods
while angry at the blinding darkness
i had no ego for light-bulb
but instead overheard:
i will not be a **** enthusiast
i heard SATAN I N EXCELSIS...

                i must be a good enemy of man
if i am also the best friend of man:
however many times:
i try not to be one.
perhaps that's how it came to be:
to thus become:
learning how to pet animals:
minimizing talking to pets
like minimizing talking to lovers
during ***...
i make fun of my cats
automating onto onomatopoeia(s)
while they pretend to want to talk...

oh but i know animals can
talk the talk of humans:
i overheard my cat Oscar Darshan
tell me outright:
(ty) JABEŁ...

                i don't need to raise
children: people disbelieved me
i went to psychiatrists
*******
and your white powder SODA brain
freeze: powder! ambitious
sexed up men of grey: and suits!

          women can have children
and hear them speak all they want
but life for man?
when he hears a petted animal speak?
sorry:
aversions to your **** and
providing bus drivers and doctors:
i have mystique:
and my testosterone:

wasn't the fox at the Greenwich:
yeah: the hustler:
enough proof?
doubting Thomas you too?! not so much
a Peter?! Edie?

oh this night, this sobering "cold":
well... it's no longer cold
said a Scouser to a Londoner:
it's no longer deemeable to say "cold":
it's actually freezing... and it is...
my face is pinched with a thousand angry
chickens
i'm drooling my snot is freezing on
my 'tash
               and there are ***** on the ends
of what used to be my fingertips:
but i'm happy like so
with moon and shadows
and all that flamboyant romanticism of
language that escapes the modern
secular
post-communist = post-colonial
and with the new advent of "communism":
see... at least when the Slavic people
tried out communism
it worked for a while and it's o.k. that it
worked for a while...
but the fetish of communism in the west:
the western fetish for a communism
with an archetypical evil of a ****:
a communism of ethno-centric mitigation...
like...
stressing the importance of how
the schematic the dissection of man was
achieved...
i can understand the superego as something
that is concentrated within the realm
of external forces of check...
an external societal norm of expectations
and playing chess
because there are rules...
3D chess i can explain in the internet
arcade of robot wars... fair enough...
but for games to be played there is a need
to implement rules: otherwise there's no
game to begin with...
imagine that sort of disorientated game
of entitlement and equal outcome
in a game a chess: well that would make
the idea, merely the idea: of playing,
a game of chess... a lot like: pointless?!
see, i love the two experience of dreams:
there are dreams i have whereby i do image
arithmetic and then there are dreams were
i simply dream of words:
as if looking up from reading a book
on the London tube...
London... aha... the star constellations
look so different south of the river...
but i get it: the superego as not part of my
schematic:
i can do with the ego-id dualism
but i can't stomach the hyphen being infiltrated
by a *******-upped Freud giving me
the internalisation of the superego as
momma and papa while society is no big brother
the superego externalised like how
the starfish eats by throwing up its cloud
of stomach or how the fly vomits on its food
then ***** it up... tasteless:
consciousness is devoid in this world of
paraphrase:
         at least if the superego is external and
part of societal infrastructure...
then at least it's not an internalised conflation:
rigid... ******* monstrosity
but even Christ couldn't create a draft
trinity
having his mother exluded from the mix
because how must have it happened
when John the Baptist did that thing with Jesus
and the dove descended and
if not two people then at least three heard
upon that signture of baptism:
he's my son... and i'm proud of him...
who? Jesus? or John the Baptist?!
Christianity has become a sort of covert-synonym word
for Communism in the mouths of western Liberals
when a new fashion statement of not treating
thoughts as freedoms
but instead fashion statements and trendy
parrot behavior settles...
the right kind of Christianity would invoke
the Church establishing a pontif with a bride...
Protestantism tried that
and it workek for a while but then Christianity
died because of the ordeal of time biology
and geology
so if you think of Communism as a time-constrained
experiment
you can start thinking of Christianity
as a time-constrained experiment that is unnanutral
by now: count 2000 years:
because how many lives are to be lived
for Christ to reach the limit of 33 springs
but still not married or fathering children
becoming a Hebrew patriarch?
i do wonder... so no wonder why the church
the institution has problems with only
alligning itself with pedophiles and homosexuals...
since... the woman is desecrated:
instead of the celebration of woman
we have this bogus shallow of church...
well it's never a Tsarist Russia and the Serfs
it's always this western narrative and
the African slaves: it's never about the Russian
serfs...
this darkest murk
this inability to lounge these Polacks
becaue oh so hard to be working in the sugar cane
fields and not the ****** whiggers
working the coal mines:
it's always the ******* juice-ash of Holocaust
in concentration camps but never the Slavic
workers of earth unearthing darkness of
the ****** bunker...
at least in idea the ideal slaughter
but being kept alive: to do the ***** work?
even Gone with the Wind alludes to when
Miss Goodietow-lost-a-shoe
begins her business venture
and employs some white-oh-yoyos
to dig for her
and no ******* ****** in sight
oh jeez these pseudo-communists have left
my **** in the form of a slobbering oyster
of a ****...
i find myself unable to return to Poland
and i can't stay in England
and i can't make the US my home
so i need to think about Polynesia and
making a Genghis Khan implosion:
like i told Edie when she dumped the carcas
of Musubi on the garbage ****:
through the needle with the rich men we walked:
i said i was dreaming...
and i need to find Taiwan but not Thailand...
because the beast of the sea needs to meet
the beast of the earth
and fire was baron...
such a long poem i wrote to Edie
about vikings and the desperation of the Poles
for Danzig, which precursored London
as the global advent of intellect:
where Farhenheit was born and bothered
Celcius
that i am sure: Calvin never spoke to Luther
and then just the origins of originals:
the sin being a plagiarism...
realising when sleeping a full breadth of day
i am both
lactose and apple intolerant:
i **** thoroughly throughout ingesting both...
so i am PAGAN therefore i was born yesterday
and there are three monotheisms and a Buddha ****...
well... one of these supposed monotheisms
became complicated and became the polyglot
polytheism of the same person
a mirror hall... not something truly geometric
Islam emerged as counter to Judaism
a competitor and Christianity
a fools errand...
fool Christ no saviour...
without marriage then "they" conjured the possbility
in the French as there: was always a lineage
and inheritance tax...
to stop history
and revert to some Apollonian Atlantis...
but in this murk of Dionysian murk and
smiles-of-chaos...
             i see a nunnery
and where i received my first diaper...

i said the Vandals are coming: for the wind
of and the wing of metallic birds...
i leave that poem with you dear
Edie: like in that movie: Heat
Val Kilmer, Al Paccino and snot
freckle... i can't remember his name...
i see his face: i can't remember his name:
Alfredo... Alfonso...
Herald: Harrold: Harrah...
the godfather junior...
maybe his politics negates him
i'm not escaping London for Kauai and the golf...
i hate golf... i'm invested in trenches...
i need to caress my mind, somewhat...
the Taxi Driver:
i can't remember the actor's name!
weird!
who was not Al Paccino
you ******* scream at me!
i'll ******* scream back!
when you think!
i'll dream!
i'll eat...               oh right... Robert... DeNiro...
Da-Nero...
                    
    the electricity shut down
when i mentioned: the Quran was written
by Khadijjah... the elder wife of Muhammad:
i thought: or so i heard:
that Muhammad was illiterate...
not dyslexic jumble
but outright illiterate:
so who wrote the Quran if not
his older wife?

then my electricity allowance runned out...
oh... but i... marinated this argument
beside of the womb
of woman...
i came here to tame the womb of man:
that of nothing: and i am... here...
        
i was born yesterday
i am:
POGANIN...
and i'm scrutinising monotheism...
and i see
a Jewish Arab war
and i don't want to become
involved as a third party
secular
             monotheism...
          Arabs can do their Jews
and the Jews can do their Arabs:
i don't need you like the Mongols
don't need Hinduism... savvy?!
truly?! are, we, savvy?!

there was so much else i wrote:
about the Baltic Eye and seeing the futures
in the erruptng gauge of
sight bleeding a water
a tight...                      slither me a proper
pop spreschen...
i do i do
                 ach macht frei!

Tanka

Marilyn Monroe
I loved her greatly
I wedded a blond
She spoke with a scouser accent
When her roots turned russet.

Arm dealers look out
When walking on your green lawn
Watch out for landmines
The mad horde of the limbless
Are seeking a ****** revenge