The gods let this baby be born
As a thing they could reclaim
One day with cruel delay
Boils from black plague desecrated her skin
Right before her second birthday
A lesson on how a life can be stolen
Shortly after it begins
Or how we're without hope to the whims
Of the bored gods before us

To save the last of his kin
The father implored the science
Of the village sage and physicians
He was turned down at every door
Their medicine was not meant
To save the poor nor destitute
  
Resolute in his faith
there were good gods who gave grace
Unto children without sin
He next beseeched healing power
from varied institutions of the miracle men
Preyed over by priests, rabbis, and sheikhs
He sacrificed and spent
every cent he had saved
And their churches took his tithes
But did not take her pain away

Grief striken, defeated, with no recourse
Liquid sedated in a pub,he feels remorse
" our child will join you soon,
my dearest departed wife"
a pubhand overhears him saying,
"you can still save your daughter's life!"

"listen as I entail
The hidden trail you must trek
before the antelucan hour strikes
Her magiks are only ripe
in the dead of the night
Nestled within that loury forest
Her cabin obscured from mortal sight
Resides an occultist of such cunning:
A bog witch named Blight"

The pubhand helped him to more mead for free
Unprompted he then proceeds to lead
The father through that place he now seeks
-claiming his shift had come to an end
As they drew closer to the cabin
Something happened most curious and queer
The pubhand turned into a black cat,
Scurried off into the brush- to dissappear

Influenced by fermented spirits in his blood
He pays heed to their whisper
-Her cabin door is ajar
And they beckon he enter

Now in Blight's place of power with his offspring.

"oh hapless father when you sing,
How the gods do smile
You worshipped the very ones
who wish to **** your only child
they're vile and malcontent
All they know are delinquent tendencies
They'll torture her spirit for sport,
When she dies you see
But by my incantation
That needn't come be"

"drain the blood of a bat
with deviant intent
Recant the name of your gods;
You now resent  
The blood will brew all the while
-in my elixir
When the little girl drinks:
it will fix her
It will turn her pale white
You will fear she has perished
She will stalk this earth
Forever parched with ravenous thirst
And a stark aversion to sunlight
NOW YOU MUST CHOOSE:
A dead child!
...or a creature of the night?"

The father did as directed
He did not second guess
Unaware of the sorceresses subtle gesticulations
-Were creating a hex
He's blind to machinations set in motion long ago
The wiccan pours her will into a binding circle
As the child drinks the concoction slow

His daughter's vitality returns
The plague is receding
Fangs sprang forth
as she bites into her father's neck
Blood trickles down in specks
The girl keeps feeding
And feeding

all gods once assembled to fight Blight
The powerful mad goddess would direct
her sadistic debauchery at their human subjects
-human praise appealed to the god's vanity-
Her godhood sealed by the Parthenon
in a prison comprised of flesh
Divinity bound;
betrayed by other gods
There were too many for her to resist
A former god trapped in mortal form
Blight's punishment was to simply exist

For 300 years Blight had waited for a night like this
An ancient curse she could wield
As revenge for imprisonment
Finally obtaining the last two ingredients:
A child that was pure
And a father's consent

A direct strike of lightning sets Blight's cabin ablaze  
still in her binding circle, she's indifferent
And unphased
From threats of fearful deities who see
She's about to set her nocturnal creations free
Undeterred by their show of force
she releases her two vamps
with a flick of her wrist and no remorse

Iightning strikes within an inch of Blight
She leers at the heavens
Much defiance and mirth
In the distance a village screams
As her fiends burn it down to the dirt

The Parthenon replies:
Bellowing cumulonimbus clouds
decries her decision
Such chaos;
now her scheming REALLY has their attention
The.Ones.Who.Watch. Above

See all.

Throughout panoptic thrones they peer
pained fury for this village culling:
Blight jeers
Sanctimonius thunderstorm brings fervent rain
Their vain,pious tears-
The skies can not contain

The gods cry.

"Oh, how i wonder what will worship gods then,
When humanity dies?"

Luminous surges of lightning bolts strike
Tries to smite this emboldened bog witch
...Yet, in spite of their wish,
she somehow stays unhurt...

Blight smirks.

Children of Louisiana,
Swept away and drowned,
In the river’s flood
And the ocean surge.
Never have recovered
Fully from the rain falling down,
And of a city that was purged.
Ignored by the government
And its fellow man,
Follow in a long line of sufferers
Since the melting, ice age glaciers
And even a tsunami in the North Sea
That wiped out Doggerland.
Dark Ages got darker as people ran
And Britain’s white cliffs were sheared.
Times got better and then got worse,
But the people carried on.
Now, the floods are a weekly thing,
A blip on a newscast,
As lost as the victims in a mess
Of other disasters,
Of wildfires, droughts and don’t
Even mention the quaking earth
Or volcanoes! We can’t take credit
For causing those!
Rich men in their castles,
Feasting and clapping each other
On their fatty backs,
Rolling in the spoils and spills
Of oil, on the flaming water of
The American plains.
Sheikhs in old Mesopotamia
Whine about oil pipelines,
Promised to them by President Cheney,
While the people starve.
Bloated oligarchs spread destruction
All over the world, from
The Congo to Chernobyl,
Melting icecaps and raising the sea,
Sinking islands where they don’t live,
Vacationing in the Maldives,
On special rates before those go under.
They won’t fix Miami, but let it sink,
But not before they plunder
The empty towers built on foolish dreams.
Of course, they’ll be the last to go,
Crammed into mansions up in the Alps,
Fighting with the European nobles
Over who gets a crumbling palace
Now sitting on the last ice floe.
A few American cousins round each other up
To catch the Dixie Flyer down to New Orleans,
Trying to hide from the polar vortex,
A dazzling case of ignorance and greed,
Only to find the tracks buried in the sea…
Down in the mud of the deep, brown sea.

it was 1994 - the offspring just did their most infectious
drum beat with gotta get away from their album
smash; years later their most infectious
riff off americana with pay the man,
they set up a charity foundation
with the quote: any hacker who downloads
our entire album gets $1 million -
true story, heard it when i heard it -
but this thing about imitating a fox's
mating calls, Keith Lemon would know
via his sketch show - wazza wazza poo p?
listen, when the offspring's smash came
out i was 8... introduced to them via
my uncle... when **** took off for them
the dreadlocks were sheered, Kerrang!
inspected the case and they were playing
arenas rather than the Brixton Academy...
so the laughter... well, you gotta laugh...
a saturday the times magazine flow:
pages 6 - 7 the sheikhs of instagram,
Lamborghinis (bikinis?) gold plated parked
with a £350 fine by Harrods, the cheap
shop for the rich - the £1 store for the rich...
Knightsbridge - call it what you like with
capitalism's Hajj of eager bargain hunters on
boxing day - shtampede! indeed, a stampede...
then on pages 8 - 9 'i knew i needed a chemical
crutch. get back on the antidepressants. be realistic.
feel no shame.' she fell off her love machine
like Catherine the Great in a bed with one
to seize the craving of the appetite - horses,
wheelchair, you get the picture, ask the Übermensch
christopher reeve -
then the crescendo - pages 10 - 11
would you re mortgage your house to save your
fur baby? - yep, arabs as decadent as the westerners
with the poor wheelchair bound woman in between
them - the vets doing brain surgery, MRI scans,
kidney transplants on dogs, cats...
i've actually never felt happier to be alive
given how the world looks right now,
and let me tell you, if Muhammad came back...
ha ha... he would do the same as all these jihadi
peasants are doing to europeans, he'd slit their (the sheikhs')
throats... at the same time wishing islam was kept
in a tight circle, passing the baton of observation to
Ali - the patron "saint" of Iran -
rather than enshrining it in the caliphates
for widespread scheme of conversion ranging
onto the borders with Catalonia -
how early the schism then! how early the schism!
the genius of the egg: yoke and white -
for years the Vatican the yoke and Canterbury and York
and Cologne (etc.) the white.

it's so middle-class it almost deceives the idea
of a functioning economic model,
if this woman gets to write this for
rent and grocery money, i'd rather stick
it out on bread-and-butter puddings in india
mid the squalor, as honest as there is
or there isn't a god -
she's basically trapped with a hamster ontology
of the treadmill -
she's discussing "emoji" (ditto regarding
correct pronunciation), i.e.
emo- -gee                              or
                        the emotional Jinn -
or the emotive genie - Aladdin somewhere -
i mean emoji and jive? **** don't pair up!
the journalist is clever in dismembering feminism,
girls get *****, X to patriarchy,
but we need to sort out...
this emo jive **** is worse than caveman material...
i'll take an oath on it: i can't run 100 metres in
under 10 seconds...
my bone density is lighter than what the general
practitioner prescribed the africans
at the paraolympic games -
**** swam like the partially limbless -
the medal ceremony was taking place
but still the ivory and sclera at midnight visible
swam, and swam...
throw a ******* rhino or a horse in there
and it'll beat the cheetah... moor boor! moor boor!
b'oh! if this is the prime concern of
feminism i'd be abhorred by the excuse of
expression per se... come on! emotional jive
instead emotional gee? what's this, an Oliver Twist
sub-plot revision?
i'm surprised women are buying into
feminism at this stage,
she's a womb and she's a house,
he's a vector and he's the return -
take her from nesting and he does not care
for being nested, he's out in the open,
when all these girls turn to what Darwinism taught them,
after all Darwinism is feminism's only compatriot,
take the spider nursery on the back of the mother,
the polar bear single mother abandoned by
the male raising her dues,
the politicised Islamic harem of monkeys
serving as argument for both origin and no origins
(you can't be as noble as the swans
overnight caring for the practice of
widowing, unless it be as quick
as black widow's or mantis' -
after all Darwinism taught us to not thieve
but to borrow, and look where borrowing left us) -
feminism only emerged because of Darwinism
being popularised, it was perfect because of its
overt use of images and a lack of salon literature of
aristocratic ladies listening eagerly while
Balzac farted into a page and the supper was made
and served by the house-staff -
never mind the sheikhs and their Lamborghini collections;
i'm careful of the spine and the half-horse-power
of my legs than the shiny wheelchairs.

I watch stymied
laughters of the world.
They are momentary tragedies.
Halting
Hindi laugh,
silent
Asian laugh.
Poking each other in ribs
infused with ****** morrow.
Why do I surreptitiously laugh, aloud on paper?

Each diseased curtain
of sawed-pulp wafts gently on
my breath, through ink, away--
contained in incense clouds
from sandalwood shrubs
which rustled once
beside a child
whose mother
dipped in Ganges
her ceremonial robe
whet, with tears,
the appetite you have
tonight
from laughing.

Downtown, outside
my cordoned hallway,
other people cackle;
they laugh like Sheikhs.
They laugh like Mullahs,
                                           rolling copies of Qur'ans
held next to black cloth,
who ask us
"Have you heard the one?"

The bishops,
priests and
generals
lean over their broaching bellies
to hear described:

Crackling yellow flames cast shadows
on maps for weary pilgrims
with questions inside their heads
suspended on the moon-tides.
They sang in a circle, one.
Motives for allegiance
unraveled on the ground of man's
passion, now rotting, beside the
carcasses of camels
too meatless to eat.

In the once cloudless sky,
separated from the stars eternally,
they conceived of
pangs as great as loneliness
which laughter disguises.

Love, a painful, confusing torment.
of which
laughter never inquires
"Have you the time for me?"
although, every few days,
it should.
Running fingers through our lover's hair,
laughter tempts the intellect eternity to
conceive.
Constant fascination is
more bearable than death,
we dream.

We all need more
persuasion
to let go,
let leather reins pulled
taut behind vocal chords
snap free from our hands
in empathy for what
can't be said
and move our tongues aside
to shout
"Again! Again!"
through laughter.

No need.
It repeats, despite encouragement.
Arriving in self-addressed envelopes in your receptacle
                                                      ­ each year
                                                            ­                                                  
              ­                                                                 ­                                 on your birthday
waiting in the dark, crying:
“Open up!
                   Climb down
out of your body.
                                          Come laugh with me,
                                                             ­               between the stars."

Dismal has became helter skelter
most ladies in Mayfair  seem worn
they're tired, waylaid in fur
but its still a man's world then

The soothsayers grin
England lost to Poland in the qualifiers.
The aftershock of the energy crisis
sees new Sheikhs
money rolls like oil,
it buys and buys for some
even for the horses competing
at the London Riding Horse Parade.

i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.

as albums go...

  kiss me kiss me kiss me

will always outrank

    disintegration:

...show me show me
        show me how you do that trick
the one that makes me scream he said
the one that makes me laugh he said
and threw his arms around my neck
show me how you do it
and i promise you i promise that
i'll run away with you...

       i was somehow always the big boy
preferring depeche mode...
  but then again,,, the vampires were out,
along with the Edwards...
           and... the game was played...
          
would have been easier asking queen Vic
to eat a ******* mango...
    had Bertie scolded his son's
stutter...
maybe then Wilhelm would not have
sent the Zeppelins...
               but then again...
what a boring London without
the Blitzkrieg revisionism!
                      a love being love,
yet a love, most painful -
           like lip-reading a mouth of a nurse
while she allowed me to spectate her
talking...
                  on the tube to her place
of work...
       lip-reading...
                    mouth open, penning,
death ears...
                          
i once heard an advice...
can't get a girlfriend in england?
travel to India...
i have a shortcut...
Manchester, Liverpool,
or Newcastle...

                        as far as i am concerned,
the English girls up there
are no chasing Saudi Sheikhs...
                  and aren't too keen on
Germans, either...
            might test my luck...
                           i'll wait for my parents
to die...
   then i'll head to t he north of England
and express my fondest
thank you, outside of
Goa or Gujarat;
i'll keep the curry recipe,
                     thank you, very, much.

i always belonged in the north...
southern English galls were
always supposedly gold digging...
      
                  my parents die...
i'll travel north...
   and have me a treat of a
northern granny to bore,
and become boorish with...
           not very unlike pears or
apples...
english women?
     sour grapes in the home counties surrounding
London and encompassing Bristol..
come the north?

            fireworks in winter!

"I got cancer here."
My Kemah King said, pointing to his nose.

"Cancer in your nose?
Liar, I thought!
I didn't voice it!-
"I don't want you to die"
I thought, yet telepathically
my gold- heart read my mind word by word.
How I love you, adore you,
live long, healthy happy prosperous.
Hey handsome wild bird of paradise divine,
Will you cut off your long nose then hu?,
(I asked, inwardly)
Hu Handsome Pinocchio!?
~~~
It's been 50 years, how do you do?  Surely with your prosperous wealth, you are in abundant best of health care anywhere on Earth!
Beloved Kings among Sheikhs.
Perhaps joined your space ship crew towards that new found peaceful world.

Oh you rddjpc! Handsome Roddy traveler Pinocchio, of mine!

Infinite true love,

AsgBba.
~~~~
By: Karijinbba.
2024.

you can count yourself out of the picture
once you've visited a brothel...
   oddly enough: never came an easy girl,
i remember at university
we sat and watched a soft core belly dance
with a few girls
   (with some Sheikhs jerking off in
the background)...
     so one invited me back to her flat,
we smoked **** for a while and then
I started to kiss her...
     borderline necrophilia (metaphor)
given her reply: do you think I'm that
easy?!
    so I replied: can I at least sleep
in your bed? my feet feel like lead.
and so I did... went home during a fresh
morning, had a shower,
                ate some cornflakes and
never met the girl again...
    I thouht that teasing foreplay
while high want about poking
the course 18 times...
                  no big deal,
   it's not that I can suddenly be in
the mood either...
                         too much blood
to the head, very little to the private...
until I stumbled into a brothel
and bypassed the madonna-*****
complex with my genitals and
thought about...
    anything other than emotional
gambling en route to scented candles,
flower petals, a warm bubbly bath
and a cinema date...
   the cow was dragged into
the slaughterhouse,
               the butcher was waiting...
because "they" think that by
infiltrating the university,
they can subsequently infiltrate
   the brothel...
     I agree, tuition fees are an extortion!
can't exactly find **** CULTURE
in a brothel...
                    and always with a good
intention, every time I walked
in I had to check whether I was a *******
or even Quasimodo himself!
       talk about looking behind your
face in a mirror... some sort of
autistic-narcissism...
    just before the mentally ill leave
their childish games of seeking attention
(as, according to a Hindu yogi)...
sure... anti-depressants?
   on my prescription is says:
FOR INSOMNIA...
         apparently not all pills fit one
size...
                 and then back into
radio music, and POP music infatuation...
mmm... LOLLIPOPS!
    candy-floss... and pink unicorns...
before we get on the topic of
clowns... ha ha... imagine
   a fear... of DRAG-QUEENS!
               yes, before the pop pushin'
a last resort of the unsure insane
abusing a metaphor...
   like any politician might...
                             I can almost feel
solidarity with women in their early
30s... I too am going through
an existential crisis...
    spaghetti in the head of a Mintour...
who, once upon the time,
had a map of the labyrinth
in his mind...
    what biological clock?
      I almost hate democracy in the form
of the lessons attributed to
the autocracy of nature...
     and when the people raised their voices...
see... once it might have been much
more intuitive,
    now there's this nagging narrative
behind the whole affair...
    we already know the Beatnik
poets of America desecrated
temple of mescaline by "inviting"
god, of symbols, into what should have
been left, undisturbed, unwritten about,
no need for the tourist in these
parts... one poem on mescaline =
1 hectare of chopped Amazonian trees...
***** is a cheap *****...
all the time in the world to bash
her about, having inherited
such notable predecessors of the art...
just today I spotted a genuine
drunk, red as a beetroot
   dancing a shadow tango with
***** Dionysius... hardly happy
on wine...
                        and no pen in sight...
a drowning man: clinging to
a razor...
               me? on my birthday I have
a moth for company....
      happy birthday me...
                     and me, escape artist in
a brothel, escape from this almost
pointless courting game:
    profiles on dating websites like
disembowled hangmen...
     short-cuts to where?
                       might as well be the one
who always asks the anaesthetian
before an operarion: quo vadis?
       the moth will spend the night
on a curtain, tomorrow i'll **** a lemon
and forget to wash my teeth
scratch my *** and wave at the sun
telling it I'm far from squinting...
           and and and...
     whatever happened to
the punctuation protocol?
       the eyes must have about
six pair of lungs...
                   no... England is a nunnery
and...
      it wasn't exactly giving 110 quid
for an hour of subjectifying a woman
(objectifying a woman during
*******?
what?! with a phobia of a limp dice?!
you have to be kidding,
*** isn't objectification akin
to a pole dance! ribbit...
    kisses a ****** that becomes
the cheapest imagery of a floral
pattern of rose flesh)...
       and if only english language
graduates wrote books or poetry...
we'd all have to be **** by their
standards of having written
essays for the dead...
   but we'd recycle... burn the libraries
which would dwarf the fate
of the library of Baghdad under
the 'ogols, or... whatever the hell
happened to the library of Alexandria...
come to think of it...
    the old testament is such
an unremarkable text....
     but that's expected,
  given the spectacular undercurrent of
events...
       the Koran? a spectacular text...
but the life behind it so generic
that Muhammad looks like
a gimp in latex compared to Genghis...
just another camel jockey / *******...
not to mention the *** note of
the repetitive rhyme during
the salat...
        sheep
     jeep, keep...
      not exactly a bunch of bookworms
with these jihadis?
what do you expect:
    a pyramid like a library consists
of more than one brick / book...
     ******* better start
scribblings something on the Kaaba
and praying for another meteor...
   unlike a woman in her early 30s...
god forbid I have an analogue
budging unconscious motive...
            to leave this joke...
               yes,  and irrelevant 100 years
from now and then...
could have been a skateboarder,
a chess master,
    a footballer or a cobbler...
           or a butcher or a tree herder...
       i'm suspect to a cognitive clock
running dry on me when I hit 35...
after which nonchalance will probably
kick in...
              the spaghetti will become
a sheath of lasagne...
    flat and boorish as far as the eye can see...
never having infested in
the monopoly of fame akin
to Madonna being desperate having missed:
better die young, than to fade away    
       train...
        Rasputin genes me...
     can't, as some people in my life
already said: ****** just won't die...
                             for 5 years have been trying
and yet the locomotive keeps ploughing
on...
              imagine the other glorious heart
akin to Caesar's ideal of sudden...
    ethereal, from a broken heart....
             and I'm sue you won't find people
jealous of those who's necrologue reads:
died, peacefully in his sleep...
   no one is jealous of those who die
in their sleep...
                 refrigerator noise / ambient
music worth of life...
                shallow graves...
                   perhaps the people
who have died in the sleep are the mentally
ill in the afterlife, having lost
touch with the reality of death...
   returning as moguls of ***** bedsheets?

to have conscience,
is to, not exactly have an
unwavering nerve...
from then tetragrammaton:
i didn't ask the semites!
the serpent didn't wind
it's labyrinth around a pine,
but around a tree
that mirrored its siamese
splinter of Y:
each tree akin to the schlangzunge,
apart from then pine
and palm...
    and to my ignorance...
Y with a 45° convergence...
to the root, the muddle,
and the unearthed lie...
         literalism of the poetic
work of the book of genesis,
a poetic Gobi...
            death prior to god,
death of metaphor,
and now, the "humble"
journalistic "fact"...
                came the compass and
i and had I to rewrite
the divine, blind Milton
led me through, and to spice
up purgatory...
for all the heavens to coincide,
hell is what man invested it,
however librating nirvana
was to keep,
such squandered tongues
readied for the pulpit...
the cake question,
no chicken prior the egg dynamism
of res omni,
                   partaking
in res per se jacks...
sorry,  rigid vocabulary...
                       Y of the oak
Y of th3 serpent...
    craft the immortal graffiti:
apparently,  it boiled down to
expressing "ΛV"...
   come the orszak of semites...
how do you spot a Sunni
stupid enough to call
the ancient Egyptian civilisation
semitic?
    an Egyptian with
a phallus limp and a
                        tongue *****....
how you spot the advent of Ali...
Sunni Muslims have 5 pillars,
oddly enough Sh'ite Muslims have...
6...
      taqiya being then:
mind you... far from Saudi whiskey
came the Afghan sandstorm
and resin from Landays...
it was never about literally 6, on the 6th
day, and the 7th that spawned
man's thought
and godly entertainment...
hardly a claim for a free will,
when unearthing the shackles
of conscience,
         excuses from a dehydrated
amylglandala are nill...
   if the Koran was a blessing...
the oil...
                     mmm...
           even if the Saudi king
employed 1000 Moroccan Sheikhs,
and 10,000 hafiz...
              ΛV:
   like a high-semite might, hide
the vowels...
                    consonants
became bricks,
    vowels became cement...
    Oedipus and Electra...
the so-called love...
                     ******* vowel hide-n-seek...
A E I O U pentagrammaton
    within the tet'
             and the Aegeian Sea
weighing turmoil up in turmoil,
the battered coast of Rhodes...
spaghetti curls of
the Mediterranean raven hair...
pillow, and eyes earning
an escape into the pearl sands,
having promised to **** the Graeae
sisters, having blinded the eye...
and the reward?
a tongue as phallus
and the double edged sword of
conversation, made piquant
in the mandible sigma pose...
wrapped around
       the tree splinter the split
king serpent tongue...
      multiplying confusion
rather than adding to it...
since repeated via the "original"
sin of plagiarism...
          taqiya is a Persian invention...
which, the sand ******* /
camel jockeys have little
knowledge of praciting with, tact...
oops is the genear
paraphrase...
      since when is Farsi scribbled into
little Tehran in...
oh wait, you didn't hear the one
about ibn-Saud, did you,
within the confines of
the capital from the east, Riyadh...
   right eye poking out
like any diabetic might see
a sugar cube...
                            little Tehran in
Dubai...
             ha ha...
                                    as if!
                   in latin script...
a serpent tongue split and multipled
clinging to a tree in a Y shared
replica.    
hard to speak of a free will,
when hindered by conscience,
or in oriental terms,
the grandeur of honour...
self-invasive, as conscience is...
   thesaurus, philologists' stone...
apparently all misunderstandings
of exfoliating with misnomer
applicability, reside in
synonyms, alias: proximity collateral.

as kids, we used to buy the turbo
chewing gum, primarily for the hidden
pictures on glossy paper of
cars...

which didn't exactly translate into me
being a kid from northern england,
travelling to knightsbridge
in the summer, making videos surround
the affair of: the sons of sheikhs
driving lamborghini(es), full rev.
   over short distance,
  to basically to the opposite of
driving a ford fiesta -
   open windows, bashing the air
         with music from the radio...

i never was into cars -
   more into feet,
       around the knee area,
shaved shins,
    slightly copper -
        not even donning high heels,
more:
    up in the air, doing the scissors,
like you just don't care...

but lately i've noticed a hidden
passion for cars,
but only on one ground...

   vintage... vinyl like qualities...

and just today, not thinking
that life could ever get any better...
**** me!
            mind bomb!

in essex? you serious?
or plain dumb joking?

       someone around here had to really
take to watching atomic blonde
and finding a replica...

   lucky sherlock...

         because...
   how often will you find an authentic
translation of history,
i.e. from the past, into the present?

   an example of
VEB sachsenring
             automobilwerke zwickau...
basically a trabant:
with a DDR sticker, and authentic
number plates...
   on the streets of england?

i basically had to light a cigarette,
drink my shveedish pear cider,
and admire...
      like i'd just been smacked in
        the face by an elephant trunk...

hence... no gender dysphoria:
    turns out i'm actually a boy,
   and i like cars...
   but only within the confines of
                        an eccentricity...
and who said that poetry is
                                   a girl's "game"?
i'm sure al capone would
have easily become a truman capote...
                         (ala: capoté!)

you have to be kidding me,
but i'm not about to slap myself in the face...
a DDR car, a trabant...
in this english contra english
****-choke of a joke's worth that's
essex?
      and they say essex is this hinterland,
this uneducated, this mundane...
this...
                             pigeons ******* on bullseye...

and then there's a DDR exponent,
just...     casually parked on the street,
in mint condition, or at least pristine...
    
west germany had the VW beetle...
   and that's plain to see, giving the revamp...
the VW kinds even revamped
   the ******* mini...
               but... an intact trabant?
**** watching atomic blonde:
go to tweed way, just off B175....
          and admire that *******...

and the pompous english of devon,
or bristol, think that the essex-folk
   are dim-witted: plastic surgery types
with a "funny" accent...
   the english and their accent snobbery...
paddy paddy poo,
   scotty scotty shoo,
                         essi essi: es the *******.

chopping two heads of garlic for:
however long that might have lasted -
each tooth cut into a fine matrix
of miniature cubes -
cut to the point where a fattiness
oozes from each garlic tooth:
sticky saliva-esque ('l) and it's not...
the kind that comes bursting
with onions spitting venom -
how bewildered to be answering
the door when a delivery man
has just dropped a package
and you've also... just been cutting
onions...
   a tear that has to transcend
both grief, happiness and pangs of
beauty -
the garlic?
     the feel of fingers after having
fingered and slobbered and
come glutton on the equivalent
of **** and a devil's dozen
of oysters -
                a recipe for pickled
cucumbers: that they were cucumbers
that would become gherkins...
yes... thinly sliced 4kg of cucumbers
to 1kg of sugar... this and that:
some curry powder...
left in 2tbsp of salt to gush with brine...
and then... the pasteurißation
process - fudge packed into jars...
the lids not fully twisted on...
some breathing room -
"baked" in an oven at 120 degrees
for less than an hour...
taken out... the lids firmly ******* on...
then the jars flipped upside down
to stand...
for safe-keeping...
to boil the impurities away...
boil giddy broth and all that scratching
youth of cucumber away
for a smoothness accustomed
to marble...
funny that... the onion - how it is
the only vegetable to have some variation
of a venom and is still
the only metaphor of a snake -
the tears i shed over these Baßil plucks...
   in english: ß is an interchange:
once a sharpened S...
i know of sharpening eSSeS...
cute acute is the final form:
           ślizg (off ślizgać: to slide -
i.e. one has the slang attache -
a bit like: having the groove)...
you can almost hear it: at the end of
each hush: it's never a hush:
it's a huś of a librarian...
        a howl of it might i add...      
- crude caron is the: not yet blunt...
meat-eater.... teeth indentations... grooves...
          shackles...
the crown: šaro-
             followed by two halves
of a crown -ść               i.e. greyness -
which is still not borrowing from
the ingenuity of the russians:
szczera (too many consonants my ***...
too many vowels you roman dogs!)
   SH-CH -
                       Š + Č = Ш + Ч = Щ
        we could have the "ingenuity" process
of this evolution of... an "apostrophe"
from the depths...
   but... catherine the great was
a german lass... and even though: Ц
sits proud and could have been...
                    it wasn't... since...

Ц ≠ CH(eap)
         or CZ(art)
           or ČaXa...
      it could have: what was it...
a mirror inquisition of mu to begin with?
give me 100 years and a book burning
and i could "correct" this burden...
so it ******* fits...
i'd even call in the mongols to implement
this change...

the germans already say: цentrum
and write zentrum - herr tseit!
                                 herr schtick-a-lot: цar...
щerość  - truthfulness...
                                         / ščerość:
two coronas halved -
or... sharpened...
                     and to think... this little adventure
has me dancing above a latin script!
and... deviating from some ur-greek...

we could do this minor change:
"pan-slavic" borrowings from
the 19the century in the balkans
under the ottomans -
           this hypered breathing tool
to extract the yet Siberia - Hades bride
a near pristine ****** -
in this cosmopolitan confused multi-
of an english...
i am here to express and drag back
into the "darkness" of the east
memento...

  that the greek had names for
some of their letters: omicron, omega,
alpha, beta, gamma...
but that the latins had:
vowel-and-consonant: syllables
instead of proper names...
delta - a sensation for a prefix letter...
and a suffix name scoop...

cut my ***** off and feed me
operatic candy...
when you open a bag of
    chimichurri chimichurri:
chim chim churri...
no... when you open a bag
of been-sprouts after
the best-before-date...
    you know the perfume if you have
ever... fermented grapes:
it's that in-between scent
of fermentation -
it's quiet off-putting...
but it's passable...
              but english is both
the currency of the present...
the language of empire
the lingua franca: although:
the crescent moon in the shackles
of the sheikhs:
who moved these youths into
europe if not the project harem...
and fatso old cat laze'ohs of
the woman's drudge:
a heaving tide of custard flesh...
boiling with lazy bop-bop of
bubbles...
                    we can discuss it in
english: never mind the natives...
we came, we saw...
some of us didn't bothered feeling
at home...
although: we once hoped to be...
never... *******... mind!

i'm here for two "letters"... well...
sounds... in the russian text...
great orthographer that i am:
the english can have their metaphysical
this certain debate that...
that uncertain debate this...
it's not like the english will ever
employ diacritical markers...
a recurrent theme: a stressor on my mind...
it will never be allowed
a pop fission - it will not claim
an epidemic status -
mind you:
the priests the psychiatrists and the
prostitutes... minor of the 3:
the four horseman... the "poet":
the poo-etcetera...
  try try, try bring fail...
"ignore, ignore": "happiness"
will find its trail...

                 but once! in a time of...
poesy and cerebral palsy!
sound: ping pongs of echoes pf
dying elephants or whales...
            the stomach of the disgruntled
indigestion that's the best assumed
presence of: sea...
            
it's become certain:
in youth to write while listening to music...
tone deaf i: too could reach
a tornado of words... that...
let's be frank: i never recite what i write...
i write best from what's
yet to be seen... i uncover what's hidden...
i don't pretend to measure sounds...
if my voice had the same sensation
to encompass blowing into a saxophone...
no... a horn...
this monotone gravity of breve -
this great aeon bespoke sloth of
an otherwise riddling tongue turned
into an ancient worming from:
from a time when man did not pass
onto his futures -
a memory of some ancient - fabled oned -
a once that turned out to be:
full of replicas! i.e. archetypical
wounds... that forever bleed...

best this written in a silence that
wakes up with an imitation wind...
two letters... russian... beside ur-greek
to me... exported to as far east
as Kamchatka.... which is practically
north of Tokyo -

it's a contested scenario... this...
Цц vs. Чч -
if it was handwritten for the envisioning
of... the:        Ш + Ц = Щ
i'm sold... aren't you sold?
  ah... envious of handwriting fluidity -
now: digit plucking - each letter a solipsistic
"counterstrike"...
     yes... looks like we have ourselves...
the... *****...
             clearly...   zee... ШИЦ!

inversion of mooment - the crows are
near tonight: they are quarreling with the gods...
or perhaps that's just the ***** foxes
teasing leather -
   that i write and there's no music
to distract me: elevate this already
impossible...

i go to sleep with alarm bells ringing...
robert duncan's realisation that he was a poet
aged 17... upon leaving high-school
i did stand before the entire cohort
of my contemporaries and recited a poem:
over which i cried two days prior...
an epileptic seizure gripped
my body from neck down...
but i did manage a recitation...
    i was supposed to become a chemist
now i'm looking for a part-time occupation
in the n.h.s. as having:
good organisational skills and...
a sense of humour...
or some BICS: for... part time gigs at
the ol' B... B... C...
i don't mind i just want something
to execute an elevated trance of
robotics to let my mind wander...
outside the confines of robo-brutus-robos:
anti-caesar: oh look! "us"!

two "inconveniences" of the 20th century
motivate me...
the despots and the shan franshishko poets...
there's that famous gozilla
of a tornado... there's that...
Bulgakov centre piece of a collection
of... best kept hush-hush among
the moth community...

   that language toys with me that
i don't want to have a competence with it
concerning that i don't have a narrrative
that i'm all tickety-fuckety
when it comes to clocks and eternal silences...
a clock on earth... vacuum...
a boiling kettle on pluto...
given only these two ***** for juggling...
it's... kinda boring... isn't it?
how is one expected to juggle
only two *****?
two oranges... better image... get go image!
i juggle time... i juggle space...
both so impossibly impersonal:
i'd loot a grave for an epitaph that
might make an irish joke down
a pub about them...

       and they kept 'em "*******" in the sports
and kept 'em prized athletes... coz cousing
'arab?
well... they knew those hebs
were expendable from the ghetto-go
prior to the gassing stipends...
it's not these whites keep:
samson strength of david-esque
ingenuity...
it's not like the hebs matter in the world
of sporting events...
gift of the gab... i guess that's what
prizes them above all else...
gifts of "superstition"...
to me? there is enough phonetic evidence
to summon me to showcase
that... the tetragrammaton is...
a spider in a web of english:
surd H(atches)...

        a breath of a dying man
about to... pOUNCE!
but the jews were never cotton pickers...
they were never athletes -
if they ever built the pyramids...
i wonder...
it's not like... they... possibly...
hebrews are intellectual creatures:
they are not... about to be caricatured
with fully functioning limbs
readied for the ******* colliseum...
unless they might me...
nero's torches...
and the greek conspiracy -
after all...
           wouldn't the greeks have
conspired....
to topple rome...
in order to therefore...
retain a dominance of power:
byzantine: years after the western
"concept" crumbled?

you don't keeps jews to have
the masses entertained:
you keep the ******* to falsetto
the ******* roll-a-bit sort of gimmick...
run around... kick a coconut...
come back with a lion's golden mane...
jason and the argonauts...
casimir and the ******* cosmotaunts:

*** note on biGGer?
better: sniGGer!
i count less in niGerian -
the offensive sound - less by scent
of "things": a heb is not a jew is  yew:
from a ***...
you can't leave these tracers or:
otherwise we: shun the *****!
that's great: i too spell a sound without
a necessity to connote malice...
but of course: borrowed lithuanian
that i am: under the hellish
anglo-saxon brute manifesto...
all is glacier and glycerine and
toughening of Karen east of any
that's east... the mouthful of
the Danube...

       to "bleep" out a sound to
mishandle the necessity of meaning:
if the blacks can own a ******
why can't i... not own a ******
in his stead of... to tattoo myself
all aryan:
the jew that never made it to
the coliseum as a gladiator -
this burning ***** hair floss of
st. peter's crux...

  we are still in favour of african
mind: less productive:
readily this body made...
there's now clue as to why
a thought concerning:
Proteus - Herr Frankenstein's monster:
Einzstein: Zuerst- also a -stein / - shtein...
zweite-christus-und-stein!

it's unlike a must it's not this
competition with: social inclusive standards:
of what?
the saxon: project that -
one year excluded the irish...
other year: made great fictions
surrounding Libya...
i have before me a history:
that in part i cannot inherit...
i have these... fickle restrictions:
panderings: walking on egg-shell
moments for...

in my own wery brittle: sam's son:
didn't herr voltzwitz stress:
son of sam-
         em... -uel
                 or... -son?
                          jacob my dear fiction...
continue: bring forth
these nuanced goods...

and my two morning synchs...
a cat that wakes me come nearing 5am:
to watch him: entertain myself...
him taking a **** or a ****...
into a tight bundle of imitation
sahara...
or another... to attire her with
creases of the hand...
to pet her... so that she feels
obliged to sleep in my bed...

there i was concerning myself:
does my beard reveal the cubism
of a violin?!
i still have two russian letters on
my mind...
i'll burn them into my forehead
so that i can allow myself to sleep...
but besides?
there's this, courtous conversation
i am to be having - past participle
and future: yes... i mean no...
i will not be having this
african gladiators contra the yiddish
intellectual sludge extension:
no anglo-saxon sensibility will
save me from this: it's own...
hidden lick o' "squander"...

   pandering... for... enough ******
autonomy... to clean offices...
and find the joy of a mind's escapism...
pandering to who beside
the ******* tended to orators
and giggling politicians?

this is enough of a night's vanquish...
to have: as i have: have tamed.

p.s. there's no proof in you "not being" racist
by having ****** a black girl...
i just wonder: could it have been enough
when the trans-racial incorporation
sequence to create the copper-skin
pseudo-arabs begun...
when it was still a taboo...
   not now... i don't know vot "vey"
vont.... or'zzz dunst noot vont...
lebanon?

             i can see myself, though...
******* some copper-skin imitation
h'arab as far tainted as:
lemon-squinting: there's no sunrise:
come the blessings of beijing...
yeah... i too would like to marinade...
or at least have that prawn flesh
tenderness:
to be able to cook in enough
critic acid... without the use
of over boiling water...
it's called tenderising or:
some other magic word...

            *** notes: yes yes...
thoroughly throughout...
fishing for russian nazis...
            ah ha ha...         deaf-tone... joke.

i'm at it again, ******* to pictures of
naked women without climaxing...
i have to... i'm gearing up for an hour's
worth of the "***** deed"...
Michaela is going back to Romania
on the 28th of this month and
i have a Wembley shift on the 16th...

my god... i went to the shop to buy some ice-cubes
a whiskey and some pepsi...
and who was in front of me in the queue?
a ******* Rolls-Royce of a woman: my type...
my mythological type of woman... foreign...
i'm guessing German... blonde hair: but not albino,
ergo mingling with tinges of a brunette,
older than me, by i'm guessing at least 10 years...

definitely German... she was buying
(from what i can remember) cat food and beer...
i looked at her hands... no ring... i abhor jewellery...
my parents thought it would be cute for
a ****** boy to don a signet on the pinky finger
like the English aristocracy... i don't do rings...
even if i were married i couldn't wear a ring on my finger...
no chance! but this was a Rolls Royce of a woman...
suitor to my frame... big... well: not fat...
just: womanly: a womanly woman...
the type that might serve you beer in a tavern...

i lost my mind... certainly not a geisha type...
a bit like Michaela last night... oh...
she was plump alright: i really plucked a plum yesterday...
usually i have problems ******* within an hour...
Khadija sort of bypassed the ****** on her own whim...
Michaela also: but she asked me to pay her extra...
£30 for ******-less oral and £40 for the full deal...

i was only there for half an hour...
all that walking around drinking cider around the brothel
rubbing my groin to get the party started:
plus her frame? she looked like what artists or
men in general found attractive in the Renaissance:
plump women... i knew i was going to ******* pretty
quickly... an unfathomable force came along
an unfathomable object... sparkles...

with past girlfriends i was such a man-*****...
ooh... need to satisfy her blah blah...
Ilona even noted that not many men are like that:
she noticed my back-then ****** library:
i started reading that infamous book The Game by
that some other pick-up artist...
i soon found that pointless... started reading
Tantra... more useful...
but yesterday? i was a man...
            30 minutes: i heard women like quickies, no?
after oral she asked me, what position?
doggy... missionary is so ******* back-breaking...
but i wanted to look at her fat ***...
no... it wasn't premature *******...
it was: i just finished a shift...
i was out of the house for over 12 hours...
i was hot, sweaty... i started drinking...
forget getting something off my chest to a psychologist
or a priest... that third P...

it was blissful... it felt like the heat-wave was
over and it started raining: somewhere...
second time though? it won't be like that...
i'm already practicing keeping the *******
prolonged... it will take two or three days
or just stroking an ******* without actually *******...
but this Rolls Royce a blonde just now...
a full woman... a woman's woman...
feline eyes dabbed with the least amount of
mascara: a woman that was single...
but looked like she was catered to by a harem
of men... well: a harem of eunuchs and some sheikh...
at least: in my eyes...

a woman that could be the antithesis of cubism,
for sure... she could stand next to a Picasso
and i could tell you: that! that's the antonym!

i couldn't possibly behave like the noble swan
in monogamy... i also couldn't do whatever is "classical"
these days about what dating was about
in 1950s America...
no chance of that happening... this is Europe, after all:
we do things differently here...

- well that was a first, i never thought i would be
directing a bus driver about where to go,
his first shift: on the 86 bus route:
i was picking up a bicycle wheel from Bicycle King
of Chadwell Heath: one of my spokes
snapped from the heat... thankfully as i was about
to do a trip... anyways...
he turned around and opened his cabin door
and asked me to direct him... so i did...
this exit on roundabout x... that exit on roundabout y...
i remember the number 5 route back in Poland
ever since i kept to this comforting thought:
i wish to become a bus-driver once...
which routes? 86 is grand... 103 would be even better...

- Michaela? after we finished our "*****" deed
we just chatted... smoked cigarettes and drank
the whiskey i brought with me...
she asked me: do you smoke? yep...
so i asked her: do you drink? yep...
15 girls in total in the brothel...
2 Polish girls, 1 Turkish girl... 2 Russian girls...
the rest? Romanian...
what time do you finish? 5am...
what then, go back home and sleep?
no... i work in a hospital in central London:
i administer medication to patients...
i like showcasing my hygiene...
shower prior... washing my genitals after...
no... of course i wouldn't shower after having *** with
her: i want her body's perfume to stay with me...
she didn't shower after either...
like-minded ***-maddened people...

i love certain women too much to listen to western:
WASPS (western anglo-saxon protestant
feminists type): let's just have fun or let's just die...
i'm not coming near that "thing" without a yard-stick!
i'm serious!
            secretive "******" / nuns...
          i'm going to have a hard time ruling my secrets
under ol' king Charlie... i'm finishing off ol' Lizzie
reign with a crescendo... dearest Lizzie:
it has been a blast... thank you: god save the queen!

- stopped off at the Moon & Stars at Romford...
the smoking was packed so i sat on the public bench
with half-a-Guinness and smoked clinging to my wheel...
finishing my cigarette i implored fellow appreciators
of the brew if i could leave my stump of filter in their
ashstray:
- oi! mate! looks like someone stole your bike!
you're only left with a wheel!
- ha ha ha... pause... but it's a unicycle now!
- ha ha...

i'm starting to surprise myself more and more...
the alles-mensch...
i'm returning to people like i first met them
back in school...
the best way i can: as a chameleon...
i'm Matthew A with some... i'm Matthew B with others...
Matthew C with another group...
and they come to me like i'm some *******
priest, some advocate...
hey! if Walt Whitman could celebrate himself
i'm going to celebrate myself:
i'm done with feeling **** about myself:
i'm going to drink, i'm going to dance: to groove...
once upon a time there were serious leftist policies
and ideologies: that tied into an alternative
economic policy: but under the same yoke
of communism? it's ******* posturing...
i'm not going to take these people seriously: esp. if they're
coming from America...
people should know better...

- two songs...
      lyrically? run to the hills by iron maiden
and midnight oil's the dead heart are the same...
white man this white man that...
Poland was cut up in three by three great empires...
then it was resurrected and then it was conquered
by **** Germany and Soviet Russia...
then it was a Soviet satellite state...
hmm: why did the English invent cricket
and rugby and football?
a bit like that fortune that met Japan when a Mongol
fleet was met with a hurricane...
yawn: the Norman invasion of 1066...
the fortune of when the Spanish armada was
met with the fickle English channel weather:
a people who have not been conquered
for a long time: are not slack... slacking about...
so? whatever is coming out of America doesn't bother me...

mind you... the latest news is ******* promising:
isn't it? i wasn't a big fan of Salman Rushdie...
oh... right the two songs...
lyrically... similar?
musically though? there's that rough-edge:
bass that sounds like a horn...
Fall Out Boy's Uma Thurman has it...
and Midnight Oil's: the Dead Heart has it too...
it's a sound akin to the word: PROWL
if you trill the R... roll it... rattle it...

that's the thing with Midnight Oil...
i remember hearing that one song of theirs they
play on Polish radio... beds are burning...
i spent... over 10 years looking up both the band
and the song name: 10 years i was looking for that song...
and once i found it i figured: it's probably not even
their best song... hey presto...

oh right... Salman Rushdie gets stabbed 15 times in
the neck...
i'm not a massive fan: i tried reading pride...
mind you... i love the comparison he gives...
Satan is falling from the sky head first, calm,
motionless like a sack of potatoes...
while Gabriel? Gabriel is trying to imitate a bird...
flapping his hands and legs about...
i guess the former is a fatalist while the second
is a would-be-opportunist...
but **** me... 15 times in the neck?

i'm starting to think all Muslim men are secretly
women...
why? there's that quote: hell knows no fury like
a woman scorned...
well... that works just as well for Muslim men:
hell knows no fury like a Muslim man insulted:
wait wait... reiteration:
hell knows no fury like a Muslim being told there's
something like free-thinking...
that certain things can be scrutinised: revised...
ergo? Muslim men are feminine:
but no surprises... polygamy and eunuchs...
me? i don't care... like i told one colt outside of
a supermarket...
he gave me 10 squid to buy him a bottle of *****...
he was in a menage trois...
i took the tenner... bought myself a whiskey
and thought: hmm... might as well but him a litre
bottle...
walked out... oh man: i was mouthed off like mad...
why didn't you buy me a 35cl flask?!
why did you buy me a litre?!
i thought you wanted *****?
the argument became so heated that a security
guard emerged from the supermarket:
- i'll get my uncle to beat you up!
- boyo, listen... listen... i have a death-wish...
tell me where you uncle wants to meet up with me...
i'll just tell him you wanted to drink *****
at the age of 15 to impress a girl... your friend...
is already *******... you're just sloppy seconds mate...

oh sure... you can insult Islam by more ways than one...
Socrates? illiterate... Jesus? illiterate...
Muhammad? illiterate...
who accounted for the life of Socrates? Plato...
Jesus? hold up... a literate fisherman by
the name of Peter? so... fishermen were literate
but the carpenters weren't? ****'s sake...
what a gap... i can imagine a tax collector to be literate...
but there's a gap... carpenters were illiterate
but fishermen were... hmm...

Muhammad? despised in Mecca... took a trip to Medina:
what's the whole affair surrounding the Satanic
Verses? CRANES... some **** about how Allah
took an wife: a pagan Arabic deity... some **** like that...
i'm flimsy on the details...
the basic motto being: Allah has no partners...
he's ultimate omni-solipsist

that's how i arrived an the compliments towards
monotheism... sitting in the dark listening
to several variations of the Adhan...
this... monotheistic god: whether Jew-....
no no... he's different... the Hebrew god is equivalent
to Hades in Greek mythology...
in no known mythology: he's a god that's a god-eater...
he ate up Beelzebub... who was a deity:
before becoming Satan's sidekick...

insult Islam? what about that woman that ran around
two mountain ranges... wasn't she Abraham's concubine?!
she wasn't his wife...
monotheism = an autistic god...
a solipsistic god... a solipsistic...
the omni-verse of man's self capacity and capability...
it's a strange model since... polytheism produced
more interesting: more opened minded people...

oh: Islam is beautiful... just like camels and like
an oasis is beautiful: in a desert...
Dubai is also beautiful in a desert:
such a splendid: pointless city...
the Adhan... i love listening to Adhans...
those elongated vibrating vowels...
when Arabs sing it's perfectly alright...
they drop the glut of a drooling tongue of QBAH...

they resonate... they talk? i'm thinking about
sweeping the streets... or haggling over
some cheap **** in a flea market...

Muhammad was illiterate... funny... that flight from
Mecca to Medina... who did he marry?
an older woman... an entrepreneurial woman...
a businness woman...
funny... i ****** a ******* with her name...
Khadija... but this one is Turkish... she's not Arabic...
and unlike Muhammad: i'm writing
the ******* book, akin the lines of Elvis Costello's
lyrics: every, *******, day... me...
i'm writing it... because... who wrote the Quran?
at least the first surah?
Khadija! she wrote them! a woman wrote
the first entries of the Quran...
she was the literate one: he... sure as ****... from what
i heard: wasn't...
a woman wrote the first entries of the Quran...
mind you... why do the sheikhs adorn clothing in white
while the women are subject to attire in black...
seriously?! that predates Nietzsche proposition
of god being dead: who died?!
who died?! who died in order for women to suffer
so in the sun? that's predating the Victorian prim
and pomp...

            i don't want to understand these people...
stabbing a guy who scribbled some words
15 ******* times in the neck?
come on: hell know no fury like a Muslim man
insulted... guess his brain goes where his ****
is about to **** out a ******* Tikka Masala chicken
makeover with a pita bread and some veggie extras...
because: that's where it's going!

i do admire the adhan... like i admire crusader chants
of the templars...
but a call to prayer? i sense it: since i rarely dream...
a bit like... trying to have a handshake with my
shadow: a funny joke... prayer is such a selfish
endeavour... since... you're never really praying
for the betterment of others: just your self
and the solipsistic nature of a monotheistic deity...
love the songs: hate the tributes...

paint me: a prettier ******* picture...

it must be the heat... but i had this wild idea...
burning my brain... evaporating whatever is supposed
to be contained between the two ears..
and behind the two eyes...
woman are the best... but also the worst of humanity...
men? they're either the best or the mediocre...
after all: you can't be a ****** genocidal maniac to
begin or end with...
you're either a great genocidal maniac or you're not...

the point being... the love triangle of Paris...
Helen and Melenaous...
    hmm... i'm thinking...
i'm not a Holocaust denier... **** me: i'm pretty
sure a lot of Polacks were used to build
the concentration camps under forced labour...
no no... i'm thinking Helen...
i'm thinking who Adolf ****** dated...

i was watching this documentary where "they" excavated
genetic background checks from Eva Braun's
personal belongings... a hair-comb with her hair...
turns out... she had Hebrew ancestry...
so... ******... dated a Jewish girl... while: dessimating
the Jews... fishy... fishing for red herrings...
i don't care much for aliens:
i've seen a fluorescent UFO once...
obviously i didn't take a picture...
i was too engrossed in drinking and lamenting
while sitting under a tree in a summer that didn't
starve my mind with a heat-wave...

women are worst than men...
men are more stupid and smarter... paradox after
paradox... i'm thinking of Helen of Troy and i'm thinking
of Eva Braun...
is it a conspiracy theory? what if she...
a Jewish girl... whispered a sweet lie into that maniac's
ear... hey... you start a Jewish prone genocide:
our people: just might get our land back!
we might have our...
there was the genesis... there was the exodus...
what's the Hebrew word for the return?
the SHOAH-לַחֲזוֹר
        KHZUR... the event that's best coupled as:
SHOAH-KHZUR...
the calamity to return to one's homeland...
which... isn't... wasn't it true... come to fruition?!
Helen of Troy... Eva ****** nee Braun?
listen... i'm busy *******... i'm going to spend the next
few days ******* myself without
*******... so i can build up a stamina
for an hour and not finish: although: gladly...
within half...
        plus... i've already ****** a Turkish *******
with a name the same as Muhammad's first wife...
the one who wrote the first Surah of the Quran:
because... he was illiterate: while she wasn't...
my Hebrew might be off...
but... i don't believe in monotheism...
  to begin with...
                            i don't believe in an autistic
robot god... i don't believe in a robotic world...
some things can be changed...
but i sort of like entertaining the idea that Eva Braun
is the modern version of Helen of Troy...
the best an the worst in women...
in men? just the best and the mediocre...
she must have whispered into whittle Adolf's ear:
hey... you start killing my people...
the global community will finally decide to give the
Jews their homeland back...
start killing... genocidally...
i mean: **** me... didn't they commit a joint suicide?!
people conjure up fairy-tales all the time...
well: the ones that can...

after all i'm a huge fan of the Batman universe...
perhaps i didn't see my parents be murdered
as a child: what child does?
on a scale of averages...
i was raised by my grandparents: i had dogs for
siblings... i didn't see me father from the age
of 4 through to 8...
i didn't see my mother from the age of 6 through to 8...
i wasn't outright abandoned like
my father was by his parents and raised
by his grandmother and his foster grandfather...
maybe that's what makes me so "clingy" to them:
or the outright economic structures...
but? intellectually: i can prosper on my own...

i can have these thought: i have already stated...
i can read the newspapers and look down on
the journalists... you... established folk...
it's like these people are the ones with the money
to produce, buy and write eternal nothings
on papyrus... the priestly / journalistic class of folk...
but then the printing press appears
and the gatekeepers are bypassed...
ergo? the internet... i don't want money
for what i ingest, digest and therefore regurgitate...

i saw the potential for a cover-op.
                  i could really do some damage if i just
dedicated myself to a thirst for knowledge...
i could sit back and watch the world change:
like... like play-dough...
  and i have... and i will continue to do so...

with the Europeans having expelled the Hebrews:
who has been welcomed into our midst
to replace those Hebrews?
calamity-to-return... to one's abiding midst...
away from the Europeans and into the Arab lot...
after all:
didn't the Arabs and the Berbers conquer
Spain with the help of the Jews?
i heard that that's what happened...

i need to work on my Hebrew...
mind you... it's an enigmatic language...
how would i write shoah-khzur?

    ש (shin) i.e. the -in disappeares
vowels are diacritical marks in Hebrew...
although: א (aleph) and ע (ayin):
are the twin-gay-lords of Eden...
who somehow managed to give birth
to the children Leph and Yin through their ****...

i was told what i current wrote was a given:
but? makes no sense...
ש no O no A... ה
i would have written as שה...
                            i can now understand how and why
emperor Nero became so easily *******...
it wasn't about: oh these Hebrews and their fire deity...
he turned the early Christians into torches
and fed them to the lions, because...
look how these people write!
there are writing in cipher-mode!

there are no vowels in hebrew worth stating them
as letters! שה shoah: yeah... yeah!
Hebrew has two vowels as consonants: Aleph and Ayin...
the gay Adams...
all the other vowels are diacritical markers...
they're not proper letters...
vowels are female:
consonants as masculine...
don't: you ******* know... how nomadic people
work?!

the internet is DUMB... KHZUR...
לַ: that's lamedh...
      is the H a surd in Hebrew? i doubt it...
כהזר...

כהזר שה                  -->      <--

              how mighty must have the wrath of Nero
been... to turn the early Christians into
torches: where are your vowels!
i can see two vowels behaving like 'em!

i need to regret something...
on the 16th i'm going back to the brothel...
my favorite new album?
the 1987 release b Midnight Oil:
Diesel and Oil...
i need prostitutes...
i need more than king Solomon...
i have n infatuation with the bodies of mandible
potential...

there are words: that are letters:
shin-cholem-kametz-h'eh
kaf-h'eh-zayin-kibbutz/shurek?-resh ..

no wonder emperor Nero slaughtered the whole
lot of yous...
i wouled have too...
white man singing about the disgraces of fellow
white man...
good enugh for me: if the Africans weren't
moved to America and required to forget their African
tongue: they would sing zilch of the blues
and a zilch of jazz... there would be zilch
of Mbapa Ella Fitzgerald... no Nina Simone...
no "RESPECT"...
            *******: self-flagellating whittle white man
of the anglo-saxon demands...
no! if there was no slave-trade...
toward the Americas... there would be no jazz!
no escape from the mind of a Mozart...
Europeans don't have voices to sing!
Africans do! but they require a European tongue
to sing in!

what racial pride? pride in what?
not keeping your language?!
being black racist supe-racialists...
our ethnicity is more important than the language
we speak? seriously?!
you... you're doubly the slave...
you don't speak your mother's tongue...
you are urban *******...
that's what you are... to me...
urban *******...
                            i speak my mother's tongue...
i guess being bilingual can be a little bit complicated...
i guess it's easier otherwise...
urban *******...
                    "natives"...
                                      as a ****** i get the whole:
"native" project all the time... **** it...
i'm siding with the imaginary Tsar...
                                  no! nein! niet!
nie!

                                  i know what brown-skinned
people are like in the work-force... they're worse than
women: they're lazier...
i'd like to think about shooting them in the head:
to get them to move-on...
esp. their younglings...
their young are CULL MATERIAL...
maybe that's why they reproduce so much:
they are CULL MATERIAL...

maybe that's why i'm experiencing a heat-wave...
i'm building up an adherence toward
a super-structure of disease-aversion...
and that implies... racial-tension mechanisations...
because i have to...
i have to... the Chinese are not going to stop *******
silly... the Indians aren't... while the demands on
the Europeans to "save the earth": **** it...
no no.... listen...
this planet is decidedly going to burn...
i just don't care...

                        i don't have any children...
i don't have a future beside the future of an idea...
that's all i have...
i don't care...
                    you burn whatever you want to
burn...
  i just wish i was living in Apocalyptic Times
and i was the Mad Max...
i seriously wish i was the reinvested
patriarch Abraham in the reinvented times
of new beginnings...

without the trenches...
there's still that commeradary...
what nuance
of the bombs of ****...

i lost the ability to feel
an intimacy when...
  a cat had to find a cushioning
sensation of fudge-packing
a corner: while at sat on a sofa...
all that furr-borrow against
a clarity of a crease
that's towing a knee and all
this naked flesh-out...

by the *****-load of
traffic... wriggling away at the
base posit...
i'm here for the
"chomąto": a collar for a horse:
i'm your paddy sort of
well respected plumber /
hobbit folk...
i'm here for "nothing":
but i'm most certainly here
for a toothache...

there is no war...
there are no trenches...
there is no mud of Flanders...
but i'm here... scribbling
toward a ferocity that:
begs giving countering
explanations...
the arabs are no longer
mere camel jockeys...
their kept monotheism
and their polygamy...
they are rich oil sheikhs...
and i'm wondering as to how or why...
i'm already a trusted extension
of *****... whenever i trusted
the bone marrow to speak...
when i was a **** toy...

                now to degrade myself
with a single mumsie...
                h. h. holmes forever solves
the plot...
   "something" is expected
to thicken... i cook a **** good
curry sauce...
the vikings were savages yet
they managed to grease up
a tier above animal...
the stature of poets...
because? the priests
were not supposed to read...

i'd sooner want to see the horrors
of the trenches...
than this... peace-abiding... faking it...
that i haven't allowed myself
to be loved...
how strange it is...
to then "stress"...
animals can stand me...
i don't expect loving to be
in their repertoire of cue...
and children find me...
bewildering enough...
to allow an exchange of eyes...
which is more than
a conversation...

i've been told to trim my Engel beard...
i gather: it is... rather bushy teasing
afro concentration
of: where oh where: my chin and
slobber?
                    
it's really sad it really is...
                  i'm here faking
homosexual erotica "literature": the best counter
to casting a ******* vote...
while i need to hear some
balloon popping in a metaphor of:
when a tree falls...
in a forest... and there's no one to
hear it fall...

                    truant! truant!
                        the tree doesn't "fall"...
there's only...
a need for rain and the forest to
be "riddled" by oaks rather than pines...
so that the rain can fall on leaves
that have to later earn
their status of cymbals...

      but this is not world war I...
i see no trenches...
yet... for ****-toy that i was...
it's nice to be appreciated as merely as such...
who dare, climb the frictions
of: father status...
and i could have been that
base alcoholic foundation stone
for a son that managed to...
transcend his origins...
i would have: i could have been
the motivational tool!
a drunk with a private library that would
have contestants shy...
in disbelief...

look at me now...
a walking cul de sac prison of life...
not "yet" aborted...
but clearly not donning a niqab...
either...

to hell with it!
let is appeal to the river of heraclitus
and god's (any god you please)
will as you orate arguments
most thoroughly...

i started to itch when i listened
to both sides of the "argument"...
i listened to the woman...
i listened to the man...
                  i'd much prefer an ownership
of a dog when i would not
have to invest in a leash...
or a muzzle...
i'd like selfish-act of presence
that abide by the foundation:
alias glue...
      i don't want selfless acts
of pretty-please...
i want the most base...
selfish acts of overtly-simplified...
life...

    i supposed myself to be...
tangled up with wilhelm's khakis...
no... wait.. adolph prone-types...
the germans / the russians
are no longer the celebrated enemy
for a cultural phallus hard-on?
i am... supposedly... facing an enemy...
that... props and gangash river plough...

this is all i have...
a sickness of christianity...
the ***** has yet to reach
the crucible... the beast is already towing
a thoroughly graced feast
of furrow...
in 7 ******* languages...
i arrived towing
the newly baptised nations of africa...
how they became so willingly converted...
i guess to counter:
the east african slave trade...
to erase all demands
for muhammad: middle-class...
come the story out of Kenya:
notably Mombasa...

     my limits of hand...
shaking agreement with shadow
then cusping a *******
reconstruction of "boney-m" *****...
i am... a walking... ghost of an abortion...
i need to satisfy myself with:
the fact that... i am not...
a protagonist choice to thereby:
climb...

i exhausted myself on proving
that geocentrism was not...
and that heliocentric is...
but sun up or down down...
gynocentrism is still the *******...
paramount of narratives!

        as well walk around
*****-tied to the narrative
of god the father...
god the necrophylia-esque sworn...
it's enough to want a rottweiler
that could be petted as a cat...
no leash... no muzzle...

it's not that investing in emotions
with anyone beside my mother...
i was a bilingual strategist
before a schizoid dumb-down...
like i had to be made
RE-tarded before gaining
the chance for the e populus
choicest of applauses!

i did imagine traffic in the trenches...
fighting a goliath of an SS-man
in the woods...
not this... not this cheap-***** of a:
as man...
when there aren't any problems:
we will... invet problems!
and if they're not problems!
they'll be known as... bureaucratic solutions!
because our hunger / fetish
for bad *** never allowed us to
disavow...
mediocre work of... perfecting an
acting principle of... loitering!

*** does two "things"... it sells...
but it also... clogs...
and by clogging in creates: cogs...
so the machinery of *******
expands!
*** selling is the easiest bit...
that it clogs up thereby creating cogs
is... a "subconscious" desire
of this... multifarious... diadem...

**** similis marries...
         cerebrum fungus...

       there! that's your ******* **** sapiens
story!
there! ping pong latin-esque quadratic!
**** similis qua fungus cerebrum...
similar to man... quasi ape...
as being... a fungus theft... of a brain...
on the "reverse"...
"god" only talks to the brain-damaged
or the brain dead...
or we evolved...
by being invested in / infested by...
a ******* talking... mushroom!
sputnik neon-lights!
arbitrary-counter-bites!
        it's a duality of arguments...
that a brain-damaged exhibit (a)
"conversing" with god
is less credible than
a brain-placebo-sucker exhibit (b)
"conversing" with:
emptiness suckle... or:
the sensible approach of...
the veil! the mushroom enzyme!
right now! no one is more sensible...
i count the affairs of the brain-damanged
in conversations with god
assured new progress as those...
"freely available"...
toying a pawn of chess...
with amazonian ******-pharmacology...
n'est ce-pas?!

.no... i'm pretty sure, that prior to hearing... glitter's rock and roll part 2... oh sure... if any of these citations were my favorite... anything but the sound of a congregations of humming farts and echoes... the trusted: self-help guru mantras... the what ifs of what nots... and knots... period pieces of picked up... and all of which... no... not even :wumpscut: bunkertor 7 - vomito *****'s fall of an empire... what radio station are you listening to? the kind that might also play 13th floor elevators' you're gonna miss me... somehow they'll be playing the black angels' young men dead... well if there's a radio station that does that... i'm gonna do the next best thing to compensate the feminists burning their bras... i'll burn my ******* vinyls! but... i can't see that on the horizon: any time soon!

anything by frank zappa...
or... iggy pop...

           and out of the bag
those stand-out tracks...

           fat white family -
        whitest boy on the beach...

wolf alice - silk...

              slaves - cheer up london...

scot the braille-reader...
which could be a name for a band's
name...
more like scotty the whipped-lock
baron...
or just scotty the braille-reader...

redder meat than buffalo steak...
a streak of tartare...
bitten by a dozen...
by a dozen: and none of them
are mosquitos...

for all the whipped cream:
sacrilege of the sacred...
beelzebub the lord of the flies...
my debaser...
my rhythm guitar on
white stripes' seven nation army...
my: this whiskey bottle
just went to heaven...

ms. amber um-um and all
those leftover yummy-crumbs
and slurps of a slush-puppy
sequence...

nirvana and sonic youth:
our lady peace...

             obviously the pixies...
the people of the sticks...
       the lesser inquiring montage
of inquisitive bums...

the nuns of beirut...
         the kola-kool kids of sunday
school mandarin...

                that! john peel epitaph.

***** boots: ariel clean socks!

       mud! rummaging in...
clay and custardo: mantra of a north
korean commando!

small elephant! big mouse!

              mahler digs ****...
mozart only does marzipan oral!

well... if beelzebub is the lord of
**** happens...
jesus, oh hey-zeus and christian...
who's the lord of the mosquitos?
who needs as much blood
and doubly as much wine?

the real miracle came when:
he turned the water into wine...
apparently no miracle
when he turned wine into blood...
the miracle: i'm pretty sure...
he turned the water into wine...
but... never mind...
he's still the lord of the mosquitos...

sugar kane and ***** boots...
anything on in utero:
the lesser part of me is still
struggling with that whole:
in vitro...

               imagine the birth of
a vampire... a blood-clot pandemic...
a romance of vampire...
that ol' h.i.v. riddled drag queen...
the vampire is either...
is a vampire an anemic or...
a haemophiliac?

                     the bad blood: ministry...
fear factory: linchpin or
zero signal...

          KMFDM - juke joint jezebel...
'i'm am the city that will rise'...

                vex'd: citations of blade runner...
i want more... life... ******...
the good old days of donny the dub and stepper...
precarious strawberries...
better... precarious strawberry harvest!
nuance: all is pink...

       ha ha...
               i'm the madman and all i did:
please don't let the draconian hogs...
oh... look... youngsters on parole...
coughing into the faces of the elderly...
n.h.s. ambulances found with nails stuck
in tires... moving slower than...
slu------- -gs pour some salt on them...
watch them sizzle in the sun...
hell... find a toad... smear some lipstick
onto it... let's wait for the princess...
no princess in 10 minutes...
set the neon-green burp alight...

as i was told by two conspiring sadist
peform this torture chamber in
the open... their excuse was:
fairy tales are gay... none of them are true...
we'd much prefer to be told the mundane
truth first... to later find escape in daydreams
than be fed the worse kind of virus disease
with santa...
      
        i just wished they stayed on
the middle ground...
         if all the would be sadists could work
in meat-processing factories...
too cute to be a cat:
or a dog... a cow can't whimper from
both the pain of the pain inflicted
and all that heap of attaching points
of being your extension of it being petted...
you herd cows...
you herd sheep... you can't exactly herd
dogs...

  you can't exactly keep or put a leash
on a cat.. you shouldn't really put a dot
above an ıota... or ȷanıce...
ı'm pretty sure the full-stop declared ıt:
we would lıke the questıon mark (?)
and the exclamatıon mark (!) to keep their
dots...

then again... my delights galore...
seeing two sadist conspire...
they were quiet open about it...
smear some lipstick onto a frog...
and set it ablaze...

       i do wonder... do i have enough
metal-******* capacity to draw that one
out from my ******* of malnourished imagination
or whether: yes... this really happened...
and...

   i got away with: adam and the ants...
prince charming...

and some duran duran...
  and some the cure and some depeche mode...
and... she must be in her 40s... nearing her 50s...
and she would be an auntie for me...
and no...

     that (out of the ashes rmx) of type o negative's
blood and fire...
    less the bat-curse and more that
resurrected crow...
     of no -man suffix to give him a marvel:
mar-vel: marvelous-veal? entry...

traci lords - control
        sepultura - roots ****** roots...
    orbital - halcyon...
           faithless - woozy...
                     geezer - the invisible...
sister machine gun - burn...

             *****'s day out - what U see...

and everything, everything i might want
to hate about a milkman's son...

there's too much music to look-out
for any sort of in-crowd...
one mention of:
in the court of the crimson king...

sergei prokofiev: crusaders in pskov...
or... alexander nevsky - the battle of the ice...
holst: an ode to death...
               death that great *****-**** or something?

death that ******* into a tissue
and a baptism after and all prior:
on the throne of thrones and from that
the great debate: was it genocide
will it be ******...
eggs without yoke?
     is that the "debate"...
or is that: one poultry abortion a day...
keeps the cholesterol at bay...
and of course the apple...
to combat the dementia of:
never / not out of Eden...
with or without the hebrew poetic route
of congesting a period of time
to mark out: the better parts
of what's still memorable...
before the acid of humanity audacity
and outright stupidity...
  does the second half of the erosion...

foals' - my number...
           foster the people - sit next to me...
anything by: cage the elephant...

!!! - chk chk chk (strange weather, isn't it?) -
jump back...

the velvet underground -
all of tomorrow's parties...

kyuss - demon cleaner...
  
     just saying... it's hardly expected...
this is the sort of music i'd hear...
if i didn't collect records?
on a whim... this brvo delta d.j.: good yarn!
of whittle amsterdam would
somehow spin... a wooden shjip's:
flight?

        wow: oh wow now that's my first
summary of: really?!

the historical argument for the accelerated
whims of balding men
in the harems of sheikhs...
that they really are the ******* emblems
of horses but otherwise...
the castrated wind-sacks of *****
when it comes to pedigree cat or
dog breeders willing a monopoly...

some come with the gories: and ghost rider...
there's just too much and there's
also "too much"...
sputnik 'nick of time of the candy-floss
barbed wire when you just sat
through a sobering visit to the dentist...

you will count your pearls...
and that tongue...
that mollusk of yours...
  well: wriggle wiggle wriggle and high-brow
forward through...
to the base of the bull's eye...

because by then: counting to 1
is the only arithmetic that's worth anything...
the vice barons - fuzzy 'n' wild...

trevor something - into your heart...
ulver - utriese...
boy harsher - country girl EP...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
years of denial -
film maker -
beat bizarre...

                   boris brejcha...
skip james - hard times killing floor blues...

spirit - the twelve dreams of dr. sardonicus...
never mind...
anything about vietnam...
c. c. r.: running through the jungle...

                    sam cooke and:
                             that knock-knock music...
heard once... never to be heard again...

pulp? this is *******... or we love life?
rammstein contra radiohead?
or is that all about elvis costello?
         tiresome the cool...
        but beyond reaching 70 and your language
is still as practical as everyday
of charles bukowski...
without any of those complications
of the comfort-riddled life...
which can always allow for an ink
and some... paper...
but then: what are guilty pleasures
by then?

        talking? thinking?
being the impractical dog-walking man?
oh god... i can think of being paid
to be a movie critic... or a restaurant
sabatouer... also a critic...
by now: as long as the hands are washed
that prepare any food...
is fine: oh a mighty O mighty fine by my
standards for identifying:
the universal / a franction of a billion
strong population sort of china-       man...

nothing smart about singing
about my initials...
m c e...               energy = mass x speed of
light squared...
so... what sort of equation has it at:
speed of light cubed?
there must be a speed of light cubed equation...
given light comes from stars...
and the stars aren't going anywhere:
apart from their usual disco orbit...
there must be a...
                                     space travelled...
time concerning = energy and...
something that invokes the speed of light cubed...
rather than squared... 2-dimensional...
there needs to be something concerning...
the nature of light in a 3-dimensional
posit... pivot...

               i am this far from wanting
any credentials to have to be psychopathic about
a heritage and a future that's a bit like
about that fortune and fame of the man:
not the buddha not the christ...
but the man who won the crown of king anon
when fermenting the clarity cocktail from
a bunch of near-rotting stalks of wheat
and getting drunk on rotting apples
borrowed from the mules and the bears...
that would stumble into their caves
and hug their shadows...

                       christopher young:
the hellraiser II: hellbound soundtrack...
or dead can dance: into the labyrinth...
or hammock's ketonic...
the full album through and through...

                        pulp that never became an oasis
or a blur...
as expected... winning... losing...
but somehow forever meshed into
the ongoing democratic fortune-wheel
spin-off... the minor influences congregation
dynamic... congesting the cogito...
          
                 wins! wins? a comment section...
the loser...
                  keeps on writing...
because... here's to elbow nudging...
   as the hands are riddled with hand-signs
for the deaf... and... that would truly be
the better part of anyone's guess...
        hallucinating braille come mid-air traction
of: things heard over a megaphone.

Spas have sprung up near and far
With chirping sparrows eager to spar
With nearly half the fairer *** toiling abroad
At the beck of oil rich sheikhs
And others at home shunning your every move
That brings to life the resultant boredom
So whats up for the pent up and the rejected
They move up the steps to chirping sparrows.

Rejected yes so long neglected
Years been counting, now have lost the count
Moved up the steps to the nesting place
Seeking solace with a chirping bird
Smiling coyly they were all in a row
With long eye lashes and  rosy red lips
Selecting one was a arduous choice
Sparrows yearning to meet the hawk in guise.

The little sparrows why are they on offer
To earn a few rupees to fill their coffer
They give and take its no plunder
So why demean them who work for their supper
Sometimes at sparring do they get hurt
No sparring should always be a friendly flirt
Sparrow you are at a corner of my heart
The memory of that sweet ecstasy is going long last.

69 contra...
a ******* crab...
side what copernican?
the tide-spotters
of the Thames,
the ugliest river in Europe...
grey murk just as, lovely,
as the matrix anti
solar energy pale Siberian
tea skies...
  which is why, apparently,
only pregnant Siberian
women drink tea with milk...
Thames... tide coming
in, tide coming out...
watered down bog of mud...
just enough for a party
at Camden and a Clash song...
moves in, moves out,
wriggles like a ******* jellyfish
on asteroid steroids...
pumps the mommy's worth,
came the needle,
the bloated chinese protein
fake's worth of muscle...
sooner an anorexic,
   and the eye of the needle
while we watched the deflating
forearm muscle,
     thet was supposed to be
the waist,
     and the helium,
always with these the ******* helium...
and squeezed testicles
wishing for a reminder
prior to the castrated meat hurdle
at the slaughterhouse....
   the most lucid memory
of my childhood,
   when the slaughterhouse
was still in the urban vicinity...
watching a cow being
towed into the slaughterhouse,
premeditating the end
she could scent in her nostrils...
once upon a time a prized milking
golden goose...
               now: recycling...
but still of use,
not contaminated by animal
testosterone,
notably in lamb meat...
    but that agonising moaning...
see... and that's authentic...
           a true lamb of God
would not have had his little...
ahem... Gethsemane moment
of crisis...
           like that cow, being towed
into the slaughterhouse...
      he was no more a son of God,
than he was the dumb silent
lamb of God...
                    the grandchildren
of the current Sheikhs will burp
for the current extravagance...
just as the Saudis turned their backs
on the Syrians...
                      i too await a worthy
hand, to spell out his name...
Saladin... ah, the romance...
ah the disillusionment with the modern,
ah, ah, ah...
      laila shukri...
               the cow towed into
the slaughterhouse...
     the razor sharp cutting shrill...
a memory, intact, worth over 20+ years...
          and no...
last time I met a vegan...
    she was a struggling anorexic...
           point in question...
why counter the adaptive genetic consistency  
of being lactose tolerant?
sure, there's not water in the desert,
which is why, you don't need
to drink alcohol...
                     start forging for
berries in an icy tundra,
and you'll soon find out that
only modern people, deem alcohol
as a recreational "drunk"...
god forbid that drinking woman,
who turned the ritual bound to Bacchus,
into a cry-into-pillow.

we've reached that sort of ripe old age of having
past relationship regrets:
personally? i love them... i keep them a secret...
well... to a "listening" audience i bare all:
swinging on the moon ****-naked
like a pig before the slaughter...
                 i still don't know why women at work
treat me like either a priest or an advocate:
the stories i heard: drinking problems, drug problems,
past-exes problems: dating boys who would
have drinking and drug problems who would
drain them of their money: blackmail them etc. etc.,
i'm sitting there and? no edge...
try telling your life story to a woman telling you hers...
ha ha... as if...
i don't know why the sudden: what would you call
it? availability? transparency?
   i have a rubber ear: it stretches... or as the fellow saying
goes: in one ear out the other...
just today i was bothered...
well it was either catching the 499 bus to Gallows' Corner
Halfords and getting the broken szprycha
spoke: of the front wheel... it snapped before i was
gearing up to a cycle routine... lucky me...
from the heat... so it was either me catching the 499 bus...
oh man... the wait... and no pubs along the way...
**** it... 103 to Romford and then the 86 to Chadwell Heath...
first to Halfords... sure... we can sort this out...
the problem is this that and the other...
but i only replaced pierced tyres... the mechanic will be
back at the end of August...
great for him: not so great for me...
this was bound to happen... auxiliary plan...
Cycle King... an independent bicycle store...
i walk in: see this problem? fixable? yep... give me your details...
it will be done by Friday... how much?
20 squid... brilliant... thank you ever so much...
then onto the Eva Hart pub
for a pint of Guinness... you seriously can only drink
Guinness in a pint sized glass from a keg...
no Guinness bottled no Guinness canned...
so i's sit down at a random table able...
have a random conversation... three guys breaking *****:
literally... joking about this,
talking seriously about that...
               ol' Ernest wrote this brilliant short-story
compilation: men without women...
and it's true! men reciprocate they talk backwards
and forwards...
men "talking" with women? it's a ******* cul de sac
one way street... women talk: men listen...
if it wasn't for the ******* i'd be, most probably,
interested in keeping pigeons or collecting stamps...
well no: i wouldn't go as far as creating toy train sets...
let's not get too excited...
we talked about the weather, work, working outside
in this current heat... the three women at a table next
to us... age restrictions on attractiveness... blah blah...
me looking like someone who ought to be in a band...
me telling him: well... i used to play guitar...
but i could never find a drummer...
(lie - there was Tobey from Switzerland at Edinburgh,
but he was already in a band,
lucky me for having a jam session with a drummer)
i found a bassist once... we recorded a demo tape...
just ******* around...
point being: i tried that scam of a website last night...
i was BLITZED out of my already numb-skull...
3 messages in and i knew i made a mistake...
after the 3 message?
                       PAY UP: THIRSTY BOY...
thank god i set up a fake john pickwick account
on aol.com...
                                  a nice pretty blonde little number...
the scam was quick to pick up...
oh ****... what am i doing here?
                    did someone spike my whiskey sharpshooter
with some acid?
i tell her: i'm going to have to delete this account...
why why why?!
listen... i've been to a few brothels in my time...
i'm not into A.I. anti-psychological ***...
                i'm not that thirsty: mind you, i am...
but i'm thirsty for some watermelon sorbet...
  i'd love a watermelon sorbet...
or some raspberry kefir...
                        oh girl: i'm dying for some raspberry kefir...
mind you this scam website promising a pool
of single mums and unfaithful wives is struggling...
why? the same girls on this website have shifted
to attention-******* on twitter...
i was sort of invested in the narrative for that website...
but? 180 characters? that's all?
sure... if you're writing in hieroglyphics...
or writing Mandarin - well: both are hieroglyphics...
anyway...
i seriously need to find a different brothel...
after that stunt my Khedija:
she promises you a date outside the brothel...
you start making plans... book a hotel...
go to the cinema... get some food... **** all night...
and then? she says... oh no no...
so? you go back to the same brothel and have
a ******* with her competition...
normal...
               she stops texting you on Wattsapp...
she probably blocked you blah blah...
hell: i gave up the best *** in my life for? a slap in the face...
she didn't: but she did: she didn't: but she did...
don't make promises you can't keep...
we'll see... i've already been paid and paid off my debt...
so i have spare squids...
she'll either entertain me or she won't my presence:
how far can you go on ******* around with
a ******* without a ******:
slurping on her and giving her the shivers of an ******?
apparently... this other one prior
said out-loud: ooh... this has only happened to me
once before...
so? must be hard to give a ******* an ******...
boasting?! boasting?!
   does anyone think slobbering on a ****...
knowing full well that just 10 minutes prior some Irish
nag was ******* the same **** is supposed
to give me ego-tripping megalomania?!
seriously?!
          this is the ******* crustaceans kingdom of ***...
believe me: it probably sounds nice...
but... this is crab-bucket type of ***...
it's a harem within a harem...
                     it's a revisit to the 1960s "liberation front"
of that great stink of culture...
someone seriously has to sink to his lowest
to revive any self-awareness for everyone else...
me? i think i'm doing just that...
            i don't have a jealous heart...
silly me: for not having a jealous heart...
women love jealous men...
women abhor selfless men...
women love jealous men...
ergo? that white elephant of the the demiurge
in the minds of Semites...
no wonder women adore the sadism they're implored
to succumb to:
while the sheikhs walk in pure white... breezy...
almost linen material: the women are shackled
to BLACK BLACK NIQABS...
fair enough... as long as you don't interfere with my
life: you do you... i'll do me...

it's funny though, how certain things (denoted by nouns) -
mind you: every thing is denoted by a noun:
you can hardly call a stone: stoneless
some made-up adjective...
although: there's the dark and there's darkness...
there's light and lightness...
****... stoney... something is stoney -
it has the credibility of being associated with stones
but isn't a stone...
two words: szprycha: a vamp of a woman...
laska - girl next door beauty...
        laska? walking-stick... but... in ****** ****...
it can refer to a woman...
szprycha, though? oh: that's another level of vamp...

why i don't approach women?
they're unapproachable...
i rather talk ******* with a few random guys:
we have more in common...
it's casual convo.
                 there are no pressures:
in scenarios that don't allow for pressures to exist:
over a pint...
there's no: my eggs are frozen,
i have household chores... my father has dementia...
i have no one to care for him...
i'm a single mum... i need someone to raise
my kiddy...
                    ******* endless lists of potential
headaches... i don't need that!
why? who am i? Atlas or something?!
it's a one way street with women:
they don't care about me...
why even bother entertaining their company?
i'm not even bitter: as much as i love *******:
eating out a prostitutes ******:
i'm not really interested in her not being
interested in my own toils...
i can entertain hers: but if she can't entertain mine?
i better internalise myself:
compartmentalise myself to suit a better: efficient me...
let people see what they want / are expected
to see... and hide what i alone want to see...

i'm not that thirsty...
              while i was riding the bus with my wonky wheel
i was listening to the agony of...
some degenerate byproduct...
YOU ******* WANT DARWINISM?!
YOU ******* WILL GET DARWINISM, PROPER!
what was i listening to?
some genetic byproduct of:
a ****** irresponsibility...
she was screaming in agony in her wheelchair...
i want food! i want food!
oh... such sweetness to that agony...
because it was so innocently mastered...

you're telling me, that Darwinism is actually true?
*******!
if Darwinism was true: ontologically:
then then Nazis would have won the second world war...
sorry... the spider kills the fly...
there's a hierarchy that only a humane aspect
of hell that was crucified disrupts...
i ought to be in charge of a harem...
with my physical dimensions i ought to:
but no... there's nature, there are the elements and there's
human intellect...
the smart nor the fittest reproduce...
the idiots do...
        the most vulnerable do...
                       such sweet song: born from
****** incompetence... a child of suffering...
                   i listened: and i listened deep...
                                    hmm... pain... very primitive...
agile in the mind of a ******...
         Pontius Pilate walked past hardly a ghost...
we shook hands and agreed...
                  of the noble man there remains only a history:
there's no present happening to contribute
to the eventuality of stating events...
me? i'm to be made responsible for the ****** malpractices of
people? that there's a time limit?
people! EASE OUR BURDENS!
but do they listen? of course not!
          
    i know i have passed my limits...
she chose to pet snakes and tarantulas and wed
herself to the next disposable male every Spring...
me? i chose to try to attract the attention
of foxes and wasps...
and keep myself wedded to her in memory...
we're at that ripe old age of having lost
our imagination and salvaging ourselves
in a unison toward the altar of memory...
i don't want to daydream:
i don't want to imagine what's already required
before my eyes...
i have no need to dream...

the night compared to day is already
a worthwhile "dream" that i can live in an expand
my senses on.

West Ham
no ham
not even West
unless you're going
that way.

I'm going West
from the East
on track
not off piste.

Sleepers on the tube train
they don't look like spies
maybe that's an agency
thing.

Passing the Emirates
no sign of Sheikhs.

But
there are vacancies
mainly
in the stares of people
who are and are not
aware
that they can be seen.

Nearly,
an internal gyroscope
steers me
in the right direction.


Getting off soon
my old friend the
Moon
has sunk into my
memory,
I'm waiting for the Sun
to rise.