Shakespeare would have failed Naplan,
That was not in his cunning plan,
Yes, his folks would have him tutored,
To ensure Billy became learned,
He would have lost his homework,
Billy did so not want extra work,
Shakespeare, that teen scallywag,
It was total fun, such a lad.
Now Shakespeare is a wraith,
Why, Billy, why? Teens sayeth,
As they serially fail literacy tests,
Why not abolish that Billy pest?
Tragic heroes and drama queens,
That's the teens writing essays on such scenes,
While Billy failed in literacy,
Teens do sense such hypocrisy.

wow
ok
well
i guess
i'm not going to stick up for you anymore
you really gonna let some
*******
lightning-pole
stuck up their rear
*******
put me on blast
like that?
and not say anything?
all i've ever done
is take care of you
beat off the ****-heads
that tried to make fun of you
told you
how much i adored you
and you really just sat there
and let me deal with that
by myself?

i guess i
know better now.
have fun
beating off all those guys
i held at bay...
i can't believe i defended you....through everything
and this is how i'm
repaid.

Kids play differn't these days
not so flat, more points of focus in less time,

more  POVs and Portals and Morphic Resonance and such

Minecraft. If you never watched a child at play
building a world from available resources,
near-infinite, digital resources limited
by algorithms based on

science.
Eco-industrial-only-mortal-home-known science.

You should see it.

Stones and plants and animals and winds and water
using right, effecting change, shaping things
in her world.

You should see what your grandchildren think.

They have access to tools we only imagined.
Remember what you imagined a road grader could do?

She built heaven with a stairway and I suggested
an elevator.

She said I could build one, a heaven elevator,
for old people in a world I make up.

She had planned to teach me if she had the chance.
She made me several avatars, she knows me.

wizard grandpa who asks if we know
the sweet influences of Pleiades,

his hand points up to the right
because this is the night after the first

quarter of the final moon pre-solstice
and he is looking west.

That one,
that is the one I will be-- wizard grandpa
square head with a pyramid on top,

minecrafty me exploring the undeveloped
fractal morphing algorythms

I'll-go grandpa, go go rhythm of the winds

drifting in what might have been a micro fiber dust bowl
waste land of 8640 chips and Zunes

(you can listen to books and play, Grandpa, at the same time)

Ah, Sam Harris, you asked a reason for the faith that is in me and my grandchildren know it so honor is at stake

and many other pride sourced sorts of things
contention tension challenging the tensegrity of made up minds

working together, serially parallel on every level of the grid, kid

Worlds with no evil intended,
that can be envisioned, practically, tested,
in Minecraft the game in conjunction
with the suggested myth in
Minecraft the interactive story

and Grandpa's story
in the world he migrated from, the journey way and back to

The Desert in The Rain shadow of the Moral Landscape
we can jump off right here

I have photos, in the cloud

trust me, things hap
ex acted
when
done
didone done
done
AM radio
The golden tones of Johnny Gravel
Kay tripple AAAAAAAAAA

A delightful ditty from the fifties programing,
in the fifties this one goes out to Rosemeade

Ah, the idyllic four bedroom ranch
now on the end of a street that dead ends
at the I-5 cliff.

A tune, whistle, while you work,
it's a hap hap happy day all the clouds have blown off

the doors of my perception
my mind expended, spent fi'ty years on the trip,
weary wearisome make ever much
some effort to discover the act

of effectual prayer
which took prayer, effectual or not, by faith, leap
fast
over the edge,
you learn that, day one, in Minecraft Training
by Brynn Aulyn

next is always over the edge,

of my perception
my expent
effort to discover the act

of effectual prayer
which took prayer,
and fasting,
over the edge,
you learn that, day one, in Minecraft Training by
******* Grandpa

next is always over the edge,

but I did not grow old after playing Minecraft as a child.
I grew old after playing with dynamite in a mine
as a child.

Major POV cred Grandpa

My weapons are not carnal.

Is there a monster if jack
finds treasure at the top of the beanstalk
and says to hell with the suffering
mother so he becomes
a god, in harmony with the giant, doing any good he can?

Let the dead bury the dead.

This is for ever.
What they don't know won't,
will not, would not, has no volition to hurt them, ever.

Good, you know, good. No good is ever bad and
the nintendray dooblay is, like rackabilly,
intentional
pre
positioning me for the idle word of the day to be ******
from hiding into the light of
double entendre? how do you mean?

light. OK, okeh, no other resupposings,

there is never light in a creation myth
until some utterance of the idea of light is communicated

which btw
mean there must be sentience from the get go

and mebbe, I thank on it, other wise, as well

as before, the get go,

it was gitgo, all the way down back ahead to Happy Together,
the song,
British invasion,
very creative hope sorta vibe
Turtles all the way down,
Hawking could not put it in words. He could keep time.

You had to be then, it was a brief history. Funny though.

The old ones gone on, they say okeh.
We good to go
happy hunting. Merry Christmas, take any open door
and listen.

The game is making many decisions based on what you pay attention to. In reality attention weighs decisively more than money in any form.
Doncha luvit, life is so unbelievable, until

you die, you think, you've seen something like what you think is possible happen, you've seen death objectively

anybody can do that right? That is evil.

Killing or dying?

Both.

Lizard brain.

the great game, neath ever more layers of moth eaten cotton and worm spun silk lace

crocheted and starched to make doilies for the parlor
when the pastor comes to pay his due attention

to chicken, made sacred for the occasion
in boiling oil, not golden,  but
fried chicken could look golden in the right light seen from the right height, apron strings high.

I could say my grandma served the man of god a golden dead bird.
And the blessing that was said came upon me

because the window in the top of my head never shut.
Air head. hearer of secrets where secrets
make themselves known, as truth sets one free. Jesus knows.
If anybody does. Wait and see. Be good.

Soyal, Yule, Christmas and the contenders, also rans
in the mid-winter hope leverage ceremony
rites of passage missing
or missed? Missed
Messages of a way promised where there seemed no way.

It is finished. The wireless grid. On the AM dial one

wee zero beat beyond simple,

you find sublime. define that. You feel what I said, Merry,

my wish to you, Merry, message of the promised way to you,
make you merry upon remembering

good wins, it never quits winning.
good, we know, personally,
good, right now,
not bad, we can touch, you and me, imagine that being good.
if feels Christmassy, in that good way.

the old way, where good is, find that. Then later, I am the way, believe me when I say I know where the kingdom of God is,

My granddaughter, somehow, gifted me a Map,
it was delivered by a messenger fly.

Ants crawl across this floor we’ve fallen on before
Crawling away from painful light meant for death
It takes time and height to view this bitter facsimile
Of the life that was when our legs shortened and
We carried righteous angst in disaffected thoraxes

We lived such a life chased by light unrepentant.
So it went with soldiers straying and fraying
Under the stress of the chase by cruel illumination
While those on the scent of something sweeter
Managed to stay out of the heat and find salvation

Truly miraculous things are these
that have no future but cocoon just the same
poor souls that should be outshined by time
find reprieve enough to shield timid bodies
long enough to find their own legs stilting

No feat of glory to any still around
But to those scattered by the wayside
These hulking creatures are visions of
Promise, a promise that one’s own feeble feelers
May one day cast out into oblivion and latch onto
The stuff dreams are made of and close their eyes
With open mouths for serums of wonderland

Such a shame then, when the hopeful
Can’t be afforded the lofty visions
Of their grindstone nose counterparts
And the wayside entraps them in whorish
Promises of paid-for pleasure

But life digresses while the underbelly
Digests the stumblers of chance
So we have you and me, and the world
Feeling inadequate legs stripped bare
So superior parts could be strapped on

This machination of imagination
Is how we get by that heat of life
What once incinerated futures
Inflicts faint unseen blisters--
Reminders of humility rising

At long last our earth-drawn eyes
Draw level with this glass half empty
But magnified with the intention of more,
More, more, more, colors filling prisms across the sky
Gaining beauty and color from the heat of long ago

But who would care about the minute minutes
Of suffering felt by those not bold or quick enough
When compared to this veritable Monet
Blessed with the gift of chasing pasts away
To be replaced with this gilded new day.

So it goes and so it must be in the minds
Still intact, kindled not hindered by the heat

                             ...

Towering over this glass of possibility,
Our focus is intent, not missing a thing
You and me, and the world all focus
On this contrived concoction of color
Bewitching that betwixt reason and love

All our eyes and all our thoughts
Gather power by the hour
Drawn from this pool of glory
Not a thought dropped into
This wishing well

While we sate our psyches
From this languishing pool
We forget how the same spark
That defined us, as we grew above the fray
Is now returned earthward

Isn’t it entertaining to contemplate
Life in the context of those wretches
Blessed to have the power of immediacy
While we sit serially still, no purpose
But to make these poor ants run.

What?
Where am i?
Last I recall I was at a bar?

CRACK!

i collected information in with my eyes
I looked over and saw her, 5'6 easy 128 lbs. with beautiful eyes.
I tried moving my hands but I was tied down
I looked Back at her and saw a cat of nine tails, I was in for it now.

She looked back at me and smacked my fresh from the cold thighs
It hurt but my body became even more aroused, as water grew in my eyes.
She grabbed my tie, which she left on my neck
"You're mine for tonight *******, and you'll please me if you want to live. "
"I nodded my head and she said that's what I wanted to hear"
She sat on my face, her thighs atop my ears.

She struck me again, the whip stinging and arousing me more,
"Oh you like pain do you? Well if you don't make me *** on your face then there's plenty in store"
So I ****** on her lovely ***** like my life depended on it,
She grabbed the back of my head and forced my tongue deeper inside her, and her juices fell on me

She said that's one order that you've completed for me
She let me go and took me into the shower and said "Here slave, you can **** me"
She laid back on the sink, and began to pleasure herself.
"Stroke your **** for me you worthless flea, if I see one drop of *** before I want it then this whip will serially damage your health. "

So I stuck myself inside her, and she Choked me as I slid in and out
I had to admit that she felt amazing, of that there was no doubt.
She turned the water on in the sink
And I kept going, her legs pulling me in deeper.
I came this close to finishing inside
And she pushed me off and said, "That's enough ***** for now, you have one more task to complete"

She laid me back down on the bed, and ****** me off after I fell asleep

planning

The other day Anna created a Pinterest board of wedding ideas (Cheesy, she knows). “It’s time to hop on the bandwagon,” she said. She insists every other girl she’s aware of - except her weird Yale roommates - has one.

We think her girls back home (in Oregon) - who didn’t go to college, are matching up with the Larrys and Gregs who stayed home to become auto mechanics and carpenters - and are now serially getting married. This trend seems to be exerting an odd, psychological pressure on Anna.

“You may be jumping the gun,” Sophie observes.

Anna’s never even had a long-term boyfriend before, but she wishes she had one now. A part time BF anyway, because who has time for more? Anna is self-proclaimed awkward with guys, especially cute ones.

She created a tinder account and uses it to see how many matches she can get - but she refuses to meet any guys there because she says she’s not “desperate.” She thinks everything about tinder screams awkward, unless people are just hooking up there - and that idea, in her mind, is absolutely disgusting.

saving the planet

Late last Friday night, a graduate friend of Peter’s threw a party at his house - far from campus. The house was packed with people and the music was thumping, the crowded rooms jumping - practically ******* - in time to a Sacramento horror punk band called “The cramps" that was playing on loop.

I made it through the living room mob to the kitchen, which was oddly empty and well lit. There was a disheveled girl gripping the island bar with one hand, like we’re on a rocking ship, while trying to light a cigarette with the other. I gently wangled the lighter from her - so she didn’t set her hair on fire - and gave her a light.

Afterwards, I slipped the lighter into her skirt pocket, and noticed half the island had coke spilled all over it. “I gave it a drink,” she said, slurring and wavering on her feet, “it looked thirsty.”

That’s when I noticed her now-empty *** and coke cup next to a soaking wet little cactus plant, two ice cubes now lodged in its dirt. I reassured her as I helped her onto a chair, “you were saving the planet.”

"You're handsome nephew, how are you single?"
Im not auntie, but thanks for the compliment.
I know mirrors lie and photographs exaggerate
But I'm not when i say I've never felt any reason
To truly believe that statement
Its grated into my head that I'm... just there in all reality
Not exemplary, not on the other side of unpresentable
Just... there.

"But you're so sweet anyone would be lucky to have you!"

I mean i try to not be an inconsiderate pile of garbage because that's not how i was raised to behave but for some reason not being argumentative over the littlest things or going out cheating is misconstrued as a lack of testosterone or an unwillingness to stand up for myself or my own... that's part of why i take my feelings out not on my S.O. but in poems...

"You'll find someone eventually!"
I appreciate the thought but i doubt it seriously
I'm serially alone, which someone will have to work a near miracle to overcome
But no one is gonna do that, so alone I'll remain like i live on the other side of the sun

bad hair day, mindwise. Too much good stuff,
as the munchies ads for AM/PM mini marts said,

using the idea in too much good stuff, to lure
the fat freaks addicted to good stuff, twinkies flash

screaming yellow zonkers, wow,
America, home of many very fat freaks/ who code.

And don't read as much as listen,
multi-tasking scatters the noise, so signals are clearer.

Knowledge portal, from Terraria X-Box to Darwin's Black Box.

You bet I knew,
I bet I didn't. … irreducible complexity, manifolded protein tech.

who can lie and call life, the whole idea, all inclusive
unto the nth degree,
stuff of stars we are. Dust in a pop song.

--- stage is bare, the narrator, walks in, unscripted/

this is it, he says. The real thing is us inter-acting,

thinking in parallel, serially infectious,
ideal shape,
whistler's teeth and tongue, call in the hounds.

When one thing bleeds into another, there is a roar,
and the echo of that is no doubt maddening,

and far from that maddened crowd,
we saw a lost soul land, and say, we gotta at least try

to own this view.

I have hordes of sunset series, from this landing zone,
where we have grown news, from dry bones,

ground to the essential message in the marrow,
we are all variations on a theme,
adaptable to most any realm where a kilo is 2.2 pounds.

---------- shaken, not stirred, pretentious ***, licensed
to ****.

There's your hero boys, JFK got away from the madness of DC
in the pages of cold war confabulation, fueled by Ian Fleming's

little trick with the knack of persona-ification infection,
a cultural carrier dis-ease, trains of thought
running through the rust belt
jumped the
tracks and rederailed
that  Zimmerman kid, was it something we did?
-Times changed.
I played around, and stayed around, that old town,
too long,

now, relative, this to that,  chart of consequences,
nothing happens.
Today,
right, this now. Reader POV.
And this is the page we are on. - self query RAM

this is all she wrote. Return to sender.
I heard Zinder, all my life
I looked for Zinder, and never found I mistook the entire song.

And here is where, the dust settled.

Gabe, my readingest grandson, so far, calls, me, really,

Look, Grandpa, I got a portal, I'll show you how it works.

Back to X-box, those black boxes are dark, take a light.

pin-pricked, the deep drip
spelled cacophony,
mired in chaos.
the human brand
of serially unkind
contradictions.
relatable

and distant.
far too nebulous
to satisfy your craving
after a long day of wanting.
those words silk-spilled
into some odd pile,
creation adjacent to intent,
and skewed from some cliff
hoping for release.

oh: before the ******* get a chance to fire me,
resign me, whatever you want to call it,
i will go "out of my way" and do the ***** task myself:

you can't exactly couple being promoted in
one venue and upkeep what used to be a juggling
act with an security agency to cover your
back by being picky-choosy (i swear an E is missing
in that word) sey not say not siy...
so a Dear Fulham Team letter is necessary to:
excuse myself from further engaging in shifts...

ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
i still can't stomach the truthful irony of those words...
if only the **** employed the Hebs
in concentration camps to make ammunition
instead of telling them to lift bags
of sand from X and moving them to Y
and then from Y back to X for this macabre
circus-prison of sadism without *** being deployed...
*** as in: the act of ***...

weird sushi... weird sushi "thinking"...
but a welcome return to ice age barbarism...
how this return to "default" taught some of us:
conscious of the unconscious...
only recently, fervently, on Kauai...
i learned, intimately,
that the reason i don't conjure pictures / movies
in my dreams is, because:
i startle the sleeper next to me
applying myself to propping up like
an exorcism manifest woodoo (V for ****
you French ***** by the Velsh
                  longbowmen: adieu! my slingshot works
just fine... merdechiens: mèreconnards!

hey hey! orthographic police...
mère but not mèrde...
         hey! Napoleon! fix this...
    no? o.k. i'll fix it...
            it's not (after all) merdé... i known that in French
you utilise diacritical accents to cut off
using distinct, direct, phoneticism of: the use of letters...
because the ****** tongue is the only
Arya equivalent of any spoken European: tongue...
by pride or detail alone...

by the command of the druid skies of England
with white and clot
and with rain also akin to milk
this milk of misery and some geographic whereabouts
like Olson's Gloucester (Glow-Mr)
of New England or Maine...
poets of worth become periodical:
autobiographical in detail: because i should
notice their influence on me...

           just like i can make a summary of my engagement
with Edie Edith and compare that
to the laments of Kierkegaard in Either / Or
about the necessity of a married life...
because touch is a language in and of itself
and only yesterday we spoke for nearly 2h about...
intellectual stuff...
           "stuff"...
                  bouts of depression in Oregon...
something new to me...
i admired Picasso's pink and blue but never thought
she had experienced such pitchy domineering men...

pitchy? no... ah... an F in      pithy...
that's an F in piTHy...       (by aid no e, yet y: yeti!)
               fret over feta in thought and beta:
but no...
post-modernism is still alive and very much decent
of me to keep it so...
i.e. alive...

           to rise to the grandiosity of names listed in the song
by the Dead Can Dance (fortunate the man with none):
Solomon, sagacious, to him complexities seemed plain,
he cursed the hour of his birth, vanus, vanus, alles hohl...
Caesar, courageous,
Socrates, honest, the man who never lied...
            they weren't so grateful... instead the rulers
fixed him a trial...

English should be written with more apostrophes
can can be known...
for example, Tottenham...
which does not utilise all the letters in the script
written... but is like haven't for have not O
omitting a letter or a syllable altogether...
Tot"ñ"'am...
                Tot'ym'um'am
Tot'nudge­-nudge'am...

                            Fulham is easier:
  Ful'am...       the genius approach of the English tongue
is the apostrophe: which is a letter eater...
because in writing it is written as: FULL-HAM
but is uttered-ushered as Ful'am...
                oh how ***** Wonka of me to have this second
tongue as a plaything as a "gimp" as this
pedophilic fetish fantasy...
    my Pontius Pilate is currently obsessed with
Islamic cleanliness before a prayer:

i too: am washing my hands clean...
before i make no prayer...
just give a deity a thought... thought...

i can obsess about the English: ing-leash for almost forever...
given two eyes two arms two ears...
moving forward everyone in the future should know
a minimum of two tongues...
that's the precursor for the advent of national /
geographic capitulation... to the soft machine
of capitalism... the hard machines are there
regardless of whether it's the soft machine
of capitalism or communism...
computer computer on my desk...
who's the smartest idiot of the rest?
but in the future two tongues for every man...
at least to levitate from any potential symptoms
of schizophrenia...
   how do you think i "cured" myself from auditory
hallucinations?
if i heard splinter-ego vanities in English...
i started to confuse / conflate the symptoms by
reaching out to my mutterzunge....

by now America should be a bilingual nation,
speaking both fluent English and Spanish...
just like England should be a bilingual nation
speaking English and German...
i already know that Poland is sort of a Switzerland
of the Slavic world...
and i will not speak ***** Cyrillic Russian...
because to me: when i hear it...
Russian is a half-formed Polish...
it ******* sounds barbaric... even the phonetic encoding
is half-baked... M and A stand out like sore thumbs
aesthetically ugliest of all...

oh my toy my little Shakespeare psychoanalysis:
i did tell her... not all psychopaths turn out
to be geniuses at killing, serially...
i too lament the primo disguise of psychopaths:
faking competence...
they fake being competent in work...
ask one for profiteroles you might end up
with an East End steak and ale pie...
but that's me being hyperbolic...

               such is the joy of utilising a tongue without
having any geographical or historical lineage
attached to it... even my accent can't be equipped
with a regional bias: so i speak a generic,
"educated" (more self than school),
cosmopolitan English of... Lóndûn...
not on a Loan, Don...
              Qix...                Kich... Kichote
kichać? to sneeze... Pan Kicham...
  
                                           Sir Sneeze-a-lot...

because there's a fury in my genius that
decided to **** of both the guardian angel and demon
and spare god a bias with regards to what's
good or what's bad
given that this third party of creatures
are akin to angels and demons, yet stricter in
revealing their presence having sought out
a potential in man...

and with the ego going into the compartment of: exists
does not exist...
and with thought going into the compartment of:
essential or not essential...
because every ego is essential:
it's only a question whether it exists or doesn't...
but forever does: given that as fluidity
it can morph from reality to myth...
from journalism to history to poetry to allegory / myth...
to dream... to the archetypes...
of course the ego can replenish itself with
"reincarnations"... but an Achilles in a carwash?!
no...
that's what the Hindus got so wong... Rrrr... i call it a trill R
journalists in England call it a... a... *******:
rhasp? no...                        whatever the Bristol crew yar ar
m'ah pirate...

i do believe in reincarnation...
isolated case of 'cogito'...
         oh sure as **** 'cogito': prompt - limbless verb
to do: thought... think...
      cogitatio...
                         ratio of cogs... that's essentially
"reincarnated"... which is god...
        the universal quest of Q / ?

      who is a distinct figure to I or the existentialist
isolation of I via "I"...
because Q is like a shadow of I
                       who is the ego in the collective unconscious
of Jungian ******-analytical philosophy /
    psychological sophistry...
the Q is the I in the collective unconscious...

I have a Q... i am (not i'm ayemmm) I A'H MMM
a Q in the collective unconscious,
just like everyone else...
i can do I in third person but
obviously doing Q in third person is more natural
and less intrusive should the trans-gang
of confused genitals
come to the fore of the meta-gang of...
                             is bad *** such a massive issue
that it has to turn political...
i always tried to have *** good enough not to later
script it as a fantasy of having *** with vampires...

thinking is recycled... reincarnated...
we all arrive at its plateau...
and let's face it... we daydream and therefore thinking
can be recycled...
as the primo tool of exacting a definition of
being aware, conscious...
it's the most ridiculous "tool"...
thinking is like a sponge without soap...
it just moves dirt from one place on the body to another...
the sword of Damocles if you were:
but a parody of that sword...

to deviate from giving quench (of thirst)
driven by existential "demands": that current man,
the modern, hyperbolic contemporary,
the journalist with an opinion column in
the editorial section of a newspaper is,
"somehow"(?) the arbiter of truthfulness
and all that is sacred to the otherwise wordly-politico
jargon ball-crushing gimmick
and the licking scrutiny of H-Bomb Contraceptive-Pill
synonimity...
hmm...

       the Hindus "maybe" forgot the cyclic nature
of thought and the linear nature of the ego...
no one is going to be "reborn" or "replaced"...
the constituent ontology of this little thing
called life: res es vivo...
not theologia in vitro... but theologia in vivo...
well... with the "polytheism" of the many schisms
of Christianity: each a "god" unto his own...
because how else to explain

NARRATIO FALSUS
of christianity: what chimera was born on the torture
chamber of Golgotha that can't:
be: no: longer: romanticised!
what was once a primer for original sin
that became the primer for original innocence...
this macabre inversion of toothpicks
and how bones can and will itch
should one have the wrong sort of protein
lodged in-between...
"christ" ushered in the concept of original innocence...

where?! where is his guilt made justifiable
by all the hoard of jurisprudence standards
kept...
to... yield 2000 years of history based off of
a fictive friction is... frankly? besides me...
and i'm not referring to this Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
anti-Rome conspiracy as a joke
in the slightest...

so few might consider themselves Gnostics...
but i'm done with these Christmassy blues
like winter is somehow a depressing...
it has occured countless times...
it reminds me of when
the snow fell and the nights were blue
and the snow like ivory
fell and sank into a melt(ing)...

       by then i will want Reyla to know from
Edie that i baked her a birthday cake
and that she shouldn't have worried about
her peers not attending her birthday party:
because they did and the pool party was in full swing
and the strawberries were juicy and
i was not a ******* after all (because pedohplia
is a male-exclusive gimmick
for branching out to seek less
translatable munchkin-fetishes?)

what with Reyla's father being, ****-tod-dead...
you'd think i might want to champion
a borrowed ambition from ancient Rome
regarding the surrogacy of offspring...
my genes are unimportant...
but if i can allow a truce with
the ROTA EX COGITATIO...
the wheel of thought... not... no... not the wheel
of fortune... thinking is cyclic...
that's why we encounter the same questions
universally...

yes, some of us are overpowered by the geniuses
to compromise with Promethean advances
for the better of all of us...
but the rest is daydreams
lazy-thinking and a recurrency of dreams...
thinking is a soft-machine...

the circle out of thinking... rota ex cogitatio...
i for i alike...
             to my left and right a deposit of her:
for her liking... by call of swan:
a song of death...
              by wake i imply death and eyes that close:
this dirge... a barge and a chuckle from
Charon... that broken oar...
a bit like a fiddle-stick in a teacup that's
also a river should sugar be dissolved in it...

because it is love that makes me feel magnificent,
invonlunerable: invulnerable...
because it is love that gives me organs for a body
otherwise without (them)...
because it is love and moreover a lover's longing
that gives me double the love and
what oh love will i ever do with this
irrational-ability but dig my trenches and hark
and puff and shatter mirrors and clause
illusions into the mix and keep this:
dearest affection dearest hope dearest dark of
shadow mingle truth
            cauldron of ingredients with pulled out
teeth to mix with frog burps...

ah... now for that letter... i'd rather resign than be fired...
it's painfully obvious:
regardless of what my earnings might be...
if i can be appreciated as competent in one place
but not another:
i'm no sufler statistician for a theatre with:
no production...

the letter:

Dear Fulham Team,

It comes with a deep seeded regret that I have to compromise with these words to compose a Resignation Letter: as to my future as a Fulham F.C. employee.

Since the end of Lockdown circa 2021 Fulham F.C. has provided me with ample opportunities to hone in on my hidden strengths in interacting with the public via working for Executive Events Security - as you might be aware, for whatever reason, the agency decided to terminate the contract - yet with the implosive power of nostalgia I felt inclined to reapply for a job with the club directly.

To somehow reiterate my original stance, it brings me great regret having to write this Letter of Resignation - I have recently been given the opportunity to fill a Supervisory position at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. I have checked future dates for the season and noticed a "coincidental" clash of shifts for F.F.C., Tottenham Hotspur F.C. (and West Ham United - I am still employed at the agency that provides services for this venue).

The only available shifts I could make myself opportune would be with a West Ham F.C. clash, yet given my recent promotion at Tottenham Hotspur F.C. and the 80% demand of attendance given my position - I would not be able to juggle allegiance to two clubs as I might have done through an agency without a self-inflicted parody of interests.

To make my argument more solid, Tottenham Hotspur F.C. will allow me to exert more responsibility and also offer me more shift-times than I'm currently able to receive at F.F.C., given the venue is partaken to events outside the realm of a football season.

I simply couldn't allow myself to leave this matter unresolved, hoping that somehow I could do a patchwork of the choicest of availabilities, relegating F.F.C. as second choice whenever clashing with Tottenham.

Yet, I must stress the importance that F.F.C. played toward building my awareness to the importance of this profession, through my 2 year experience of starting this profession, I can, without any hesitation (and therefore doubt) confirm that, being a fan of the sport that's football, therefore being ultimately neutral when it comes to the sordid affair of team-tribalism, on numerous occasions, at other venues and indeed at Craven Cottage, I have earnestly expressed the following sentiment:

I'm not a fan of any football team as such, technically I should be a West Ham or a Dagenham & Redbridge fan - from a geographical standpoint of adhering to the geo-politics of 'nearest therefore dearest'... but I will always remain a fan of Fulham fans... because they are the fans that imbue a need for reciprocating a base human decency, unmet on any other football venue.

I hope I have made my notice as amicable as possible - in my mind it would be unfair to remain on the payroll wishfully thinking that my absenteeism was NOT because of a conflict of interests due to work elsewhere, therefore I'd rather hand in my resignation due to this, than have someone from the team "call me out" on the matter.

As ever and with a deep-seeded regret, I hope I have become across as transparent and in that: doubly regretful, for having bothered you with giving me employability, yet having to resign.

Kind Regards

Mateusz Elert