why did i ever go out on a friday night?
drinks with "friends" and hitting the essex
club "scene" -
well - no much of a scene -
there was never the music you'd want to listen
to: come friday or saturday -
even mid-week when all the rock kids
were "hanging out" -
what would be chances of being your own d.j. -
catching something really new...
POIZON - church is poizon -
cool mom - something between a crossbreed
of cage the elephants and nirvana on blew -
3rd view - moi -
but i used to: and i remember that gehenna of
a sobering walk - alone after a night out -
like some furious son of sam -
when youth still had the adrenaline with it
and a sense of anger ******* around with
disillusionment -

those were the friday nights: bon jovi highlights
and long hair and milking a somewhat androgynous
look - sometimes the mascara would come out...
those were the days of having milk skin
and a proper shave -
the long hair and the waistcoast and cravat: semi-,

the lonesome story before i met my beard:
fwyday mordaithceirch -
i actually have a name for it...
i forgot what's already the designated
whittle pecker mr. pritchard of the down down:
below...

oh, oh so what...
rough friday nights in my youth -
on the clubbing "scene" -
and always that moral hangover when it came
to drinking with others -
ever since i started drinking by myself:
i forgot the mirror and that bucket
of warm water beside my bed to put my hand
in before going to sleep...
once or twice the company was worth the drink -
but most of the time you only kept
such company: because you were drinking -
drinking was never an afterthought -

now... i like drinking alone -
at least i can keep fact-checking the company
and the odd vocab peacock taking to the catwalk
of a ruminating free-fall tongue waggle
and rummage - the needle in the haystack
adventure - or... the ******* bucket
of deshelled oysters...

there have been some awful friday nights -
but: seeing how i started to give my beard
a welsh name borrowed from a willem dafoe
novel - and how it simply became pointless
to wake the dead with the angry tantrums
of youth: and how i seem to have
forgotten where my 20s "went" -
somehow rooted in: da-sein and how
i "wasted" 2 years on one book by kant -
2 years on one book by heidegger -
and: how i didn't have the time to "catch-up"
on the greek classics -

oh these island dwelling people -
i try to imagine them not being a seafaring:
and their messiah / superiority complex -
with their breakfast that could hardly
be digested come the hour of noon -
or no messiah / superiority complex -
the traffic: indeed - works like clockword...
from left to right...
sidenote: what of fahrenheit and
the feet and inches - stones and pounds?
ounces?
the metric of: baseline 0 here,
baseline 00 over there...

no... Michele Campanella piano solo take
on wagner's das rheingelt: entry of the gods into
valhalla - it's hardly anemic -
it's... the last leaf of autumn falling -
because the crescendo has already happened...
a befitting closure...

the superior island folk and their...
hyphens and germanic loan words -
how almost all names in chemistry are still
in their germanic: intact form of: no hyphen:
broken leg or broken arm...

woodwinds... perhaps... the violins providing
the humming of birds:
chirp chirp: no chirping -
and of course the horn - but the horns never
as prominent as those drank from...

something has happened today -
but i am... left without having any english
sensibility / egalitarianism -
somehow i always equate egalitarianism with
the english - the islanders -
a firework went off in the background -
mr. sloth awoke mrs. slouch after 3 years
for a firecracker celebration...

because who would want to be ruled
over by unelected: chocolatiers...
esp. after their trial run in the Congo -
but i have certainly had worse friday nights...

it can't exactly get much worse than...
say... listening to the siegfried idyll...
multitasking: drinking a cider, smoking a cigarette,
balancing act of folded leg sat on
perched on a windowsill solving a no. 11,289
sudoku from the 27th jan. 2020...
otherwise prior to:
imagine my disbelief at the pleasure -

with numbers to somehow escape thinking in words:
no grand arithmetic linear gymnastics -
of the end result -
certainly no logical statements -
just a whirlwind of numbers complimenting
these few words...
and what a fine friday night it has become:

the pizza was made - god save me from the perfume
of yeast... or checking on the rising dough
from time to time -
the leftover yeast gave me the opportunity
to bake an imitation sourdough crust pretty-as-a-picture
loaf that: would make any mushroom blush
and shy away from unfolding into an umbrella pose...
or a Y... curling outward-inward into an upsilon Υ...

because how could i forget the pleasure of
sifting through numbers?
by the time i attempted puzzle no. 11,290
i had to write a "map"

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
2)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x

come to think of it... where's a subscript?
if i'm going to use 1, 2, 3...
to tier the allocation of squares...
tennis and sudoku...
tennis: a game of 7 rectangles -
and how many judges and ball boys / girls?
sudoku - a puzzle of 10 squares - perhaps...
if i'll use tiers 1, 2, 3: a1, b2, c3...
what if... sudoku invoked letters rather than
numbers?

much later... oh believe me...
this is the antithesis of knausgård
writing about using googlemaps...
        
           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

it's still a schematic - the narrative is yet
to begin... otherwise...
there's nothing smart about this...
i have tired eyes sometimes:
i succumb and have to allow myself
to no acid-bath these eyes in words...

esp. since i speak so rarely -
imagine... in england and i spear
the bare minimum of english -
i can: i have to: i will - when being prompted -
but i can't remember the last time
i had an honest: informal exchange
of letters... lapped up by the glutton
tongue... i looked and looked
and with my silence i can attest:
there's a speech-impediment -
a stutter that's not born from nervousness...
but... an allusion to a "stoic" through
my lack of conversation...

at least on paper i can exfoliate -
enough cider and enoug whiskey and i'm all
sparrow McDermott!
ugh... the devolved scots and the likewise
welsh... devolved nations...
only this aspect of Brexit is... well...
imagine the "evolved" status of post-Yugoslavia...
Kosovo...
this is the only aspect of an otherwise:
fair enough that's... well...
if you lived for 3 years among the scots...
you'd get to appreciate them...
this is the only aspect of this whole affair
i will ever appreciate...
i would pour blood and **** into
the Welsh continuing their...
preservation of the iaith...
forever and the more - i would love to see
scotland start to dig trenches and
forget trainspotting gaelic -
parading like ponces and humpty dumpteys
with "harkccents"... glasgewian bull-runnings...
cousins aye and wee -

a thing of beauty: a thing of union...
but this... they were bullied in brussels...
they came back and started to bully the scots...
if you have lived -
the betas of cardiff - but they tongue: remains!
look far back and wales would encompass
cornwall -
ignorant i of a 26 year "servitude" on these isles...
quiz me on outside of London:
no point...
perhaps i too would wish for the lost
theta in Dublin - towing: to t'ink...
as any sanskrit H-surd does matter...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

but if i will replace... the side tiers of numbers...
the numbers in the puzzle will have to become
letters - greek... probably iota, epsilon and upper-case
gamma...

the bullied have returned from the palance
of the chocalatiers and: back to their old ways
of bullying the rest of these island folk...
because: it's infantile for me imagine
a resurrection of the crown (poland)
and the grand duchy of lithuania -
the commonwealth -
but somehow the united kingdom is not
fated to become the next yugoslavia -

i can confirm - up in edinburgh i was
confirmed by having the hat of Knox having
scalped me -
never is always metaphor: vaguely -
as in literally - in these quasi-paragraphs...
so it's not... infantile to even "think" that
the british empire can be revived?
zee window-licker spezials of
cross-breed h'americana postcards sent?
i nibble to attempt a joke...

oh i can bulldozer this whole narrative...
turn into a berserker -
i've saved enough money to deal
with the label loser...
all it will take is me having drunk enough -
sightseeing the slums of london's east end
and then hitting the brothel:
like an iron-head... to the pillow
and the ***** of a *******...

because i have had worse friday nights...
terrible company...
if i were not a michel de montaigne or a knausgård:
me me me, me me, me me me me,
write enough of that and:
to meme to grafitti... or to...
why are there no diacritical markers in
the english language worthy of recognition?
why would i...
rhoi fy **** y Cymraeg enw?
give my beard a welsh name?
and why is that not a cedilla C but a ******* K?
why not... Çumraeg?

on foreign shores i have made it adamant that...
this sense of foreigness does not
peppermint my presence with hopes to:
add to - an integration -
just borrow what the local have made: left-overs...
and work with that...

(insert snigger) - the neu-vikings of
northumberland...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

this really does have a linear narrative...
here goes...
3(c1), 9(c3), 1(c1), 2(c3), 2(c1), 2(a1), 9(a3), 8(c3),
4(c3), 8(c2), 8(a2), 5(b2), 7(c2), 3(b2), 3(b3), 8(b3),
7(c1), 5(c1), 7(b3), 5(c3), 1(c3), 6(c3), 1(c2), 3(c2),
9(c2), 9(b2), 6(b1), 6(b2), 6(b3), 2(b3), 2(b2), 1(b2),
1(b1), 9(b1), 9(a1), 8(b1), 8(a1), 5(b1), 7(b1), 7(a1)...

and then a "gamble" in the narrative...
the (7a2 and the 5a2 - interchange)....
it's a pleasure - not a chore -
5  9  4
2  8  7
3  6  1
8  1  9
6  4  3
7  5  2 - this line... what if it was 5  7  2?
1  2  5
4  7  6
9  3  8
if i want to solve this puzzle - i will solve it
and not read a tabloid article /
whatever the hell has become of youtube...
my diamond jukebox...

otherwise the "narrative" continued from
7a2 and the 5a2 interchange:
7(3a), 4(a3), 4(a2), 6(a1), 4(a1), 5(a1), 5(a3),
1(a3), 1(a1), 3(a1), 3(a2), 6(a2)... end result?

           a             b             c
      5   9   4   6   8   1   2   3   7  
1)   2   8   7   3   5   9   6   1   4
      3   6   1   2   7   4   5   8   9
      8   1   9   5   4   3   7   6   2
2)   6   4   3   7   1   2   9   5   8
      7   5   2   9   6   8   3   4   1
      1   2   5   8   3   7   4   9   6
3)   4   7   6   1   9   5   8   2   3
      9   3   8   4   2   6   1   7   5

because i can imagine this not being:
the most difficult Finnish sudoku...
i can almost imagine this puzzle
to be in greek...
where: 1ι, 2ζ, 3ε, 4χ, 5Σ, 6δ, 7Γ, 8β, 9ρ...

in the background all i hear is:
corvus corax' la i mbealtaine...
the greek version of the japanese puzzle...

           a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   6   8   ι   ζ   ε   7  
1)   ζ   8   7   ε   Σ   9   6   ι   χ
      ε   6   ι   ζ   7   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   7   6   ζ
2)   6   χ   ε   7   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      7   Σ   ζ   9   6   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   7   χ   9   6
3)   χ   7   6   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   6   ι   7   Σ

half-way... i just wanted to "selfie" what
will become of this... i no longer write: i paint...

            a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   δ   8   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   8   Γ   ε   Σ   9   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      Γ   Σ   ζ   9   δ   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   Γ   χ   9   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

going... going... gone...

            a             b             c
      Σ   ρ   χ   δ   β   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   β   Γ   ε   Σ   ρ   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   β   ρ
      β   ι   ρ   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   ρ   Σ   β
      Γ   Σ   ζ   ρ   δ   β   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   β   ε   Γ   χ   ρ   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   ρ   Σ   β   ζ   ε
      ρ   ε   β   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

i don't mind a people being right...
but the overt-gloating...
without having to work around the sort
of paranoia associated with:
how the russians are not allowed to glutton
themselves on gloating -
because they are always made
to feel suspcious - the russians can't gloat
like most of the anglo- speaking world...
always suspect: russophobia evil genuises...
tip-toeing goliaths - less the blundering
fudge-packers of "global ****"...
and i kissed a boy and i liked it...
my genitals started shrinking
and my *** started to exfoliate with:
welcome all! welcome all hard and on!
and that tongue in my mouth always helps...
but imagine my surprise when
i started to navigate my hands
but the reply came:
timbuktu and mt. kilimanjaro will not be found
attached to this sort of torso...
wrong dog, wrong tree...

some things really do require numbers...
i once had a mathematics teacher in high school
bemoan the origin of modern numbers
and how we once: upon a time used these letters...
but did our arithmetic with visual aids
akin to the abacus... because...
you'd have to "read braille" when counting...
to differentiate the already: lettered numbers
and the letters being letters -
and all arithmetic functions
were "spoken of" but never depicted...
i.e. there was no VII + III = X...
there was no XV - XI = IV...
eh?! arithmetic was cat-intuitive...
not spoken of - done by either the visual
aid of fingers when haggling
in a market place -
or by the abacus aid in a bureucratic office!

i said this was the most perfect friday night...
what did i have to offer?
no clickbait title - some gems of wording
in between?
the patient reader - as ever - most rewarded -

but... oh my god... the sensation of
changing the bed sheets...
it's friday night and you're... changing your bed sheets...
and they are more crisp and clean
than any political event that the journalist leeches
are milking -
and you do it with a saving private ryan precision -
you will sleep in this bed: well into
11am of a today to come...
believe me: that you will...

- in that i am still walking among the germanic people -
if the germans will sing a: bretonisher marsch...
then the two peoples are alligned by
their sentiment for the crow as their godhead:
alles menschen totem...
what could possibly make me feel welcome?
french grammar is polish grammar...
matin de printemps - poranek wiosny -
spring morning in reverse in germanic...
how many more examples would i ever wish
to give?

there was a moment in my life where...
i realised my faults... i should have read
the Pickwick Papers... anything by C. Dickens to be sure...
instead came Stendhal, Voltaire, Balzac...
because if you said to me...
BBC radio 4... the archers...
and... thomas hardy: madding crowd?
you'd accuse me of being ignorant of:
London is a bustling cosmopolitan in-waiting
from the busy-body industrial proto-Beijing
it was of 100 years ago?    
the French had cosmopolitan intellectualism
100 years prior to the english...
100 years later and it's still not much...
is anyone about to cite me william hazlitt?!

the trouble with the english is that they hold dear
to that one old 19th century idea -
this waiting for: awaiting a revival of darwinism...
the "blatantly" obvious needs a resurgence!
because a michael faraday must most surely
be forgotten!
how many times will this already painful reality
need to be emphasised once more:
intellectually - via a darwinism?
no one stresses the copernican "upside-down"...
or what is copernican "west" up in space?
how does acknowledging the sphere
of the earth - ease you reading a flat map -
moving from point A to point B?

earlier this week - for once in my life i was
ashamed of what i wrote -
so i wrote for scribli per se: scribbles for
scribbles themselves -
the darwinian germanic folk who say:
alles von afrika...
how the hebrews debased themselves
in both aushwitz and breaking their bones
on the emoji hieroglyphs -
alles von afrika: ja... so sicher... so wahr!

ask any slavic person among the germanic
peoples...
where from? wir (ar) sind lesen und schreiben
"afrika": i.e. Indu...
if the african challenged the hebrews
with... "the best they had": egyptian emojis...
why would i not stress my birth
with pseudo cedilla Ş / इ... ☦ -
this indo-european is not... at home with
these african-germanoids...
pseudos and quasi -
these chocolate frenzied busy-buddies!

from the caucasian and further still from
that whittle sub-corinthian quote: continent...
somehow, "somehow" this part of this story
is read: south to north... always a grand
marker missing when the people went
east, squinted... learned skeleton existence,
atoms... and the frenzy of letters:
owls and ******* **** flinging beetles
back in the north eastern tip of
africa: in that egyptian haemorrhage of "idea"...

i assure myself... perhaps the form came from
africa... but sure as **** the tongue only arrived
in the lap of the Dalai Lama...
as did the "thinking" and the music
across prior to the Mongol's curiosity
over the tundra of Siberia...
something had to be placed on a loan...
and coming back to the cradle and the crux
had to happen like so...
not this current: ergo: so...
quickened and: what news from Damascus?!

first impressions count...
i made my bed... it's newly washed...
as crisp as falling onto a bed a prawn crackers...
without the crumbs' itch...
like listening to some german:
juggernaut... this will do... i can fall asleep
with this: grab hören zu der winderhall...
mehr flöte - weniger violinekratzen!
schlechtdeutsche? alle deutsche ist gut deutsche...
erwarten etwas isländisch zu sein
gesprochen insel von insel: auf diese inseln?!

to make a crisp bed of freshly washed sheets...
to sleep in them alone...
given the grammar is not that far removed...
are the french even remotely translated
as a germanic "sort of" people?
"they" or "we" share the same grammar...
and there are celtic freedoms that would
never be allowed to exfoliate under
strict anglo-ßaß obligations...

oh sure! great people! steam engine: choo-choo!
newton et al...
shakespeare: when they taught us shakespeare
they should have taught us bernard shaw...
when they forced jane eyre down our throats
we should have been reading
the pickwick papers...
the music will remain german -
because as much as vaughan williams...
holst and händel were "were" english...
esp. latter with his umlaut that spread over
toward i-and-j...

why wouldn't you **** at the pillar of the empire:
a past most assured - dust, books and moths...
like hell will i come to correct my ways
to state the: pish-poor Elgar... this poo'em too...
himmel... sky...
leerenhimmel - empty sky -
nein sonne während der tag:
das englischnebel: bedeckthimmel...
nein mond während der nacht...
nur so...

i of the lesser men of this world duly bow
my presence before the altar of the higher men
of these isles...
and hope and pray that their wisdom
will not bestow upon them any major calamity...
with not irony or ridicule i wish upon
these peoples... the right sort of oars
to turn this rooted island
into the people's imagined langboot...

there are only one british people a people
who will pursue to gloat having been
conquered by the romans...
being raided by the vikings...
integrating the anglo-ßaß...
a second viking coming via the Normans...
the push-over remains of the celts...
that somehow translated itself into
the: empire...
ideal: to compensate...
the islamic fervor for the... resurrected
caliphate...
jokes about the dritte ***** and the vierte *****...
that's pretty much the precursor jokes
surrounding: ein zweite ***** -
auf welche die sonne nimmer setzt -
ever wonder how that translates with the increased
cases of insomnia?!

again: bad german is better than
no german.

I am not the protagonist of this story,
I am not the righteous one.
I am not who you think I am,
I am the antagonist, the obstacle to be overcome.

I'm selfish, reckless, mean; I'll say anything to get under your skin.
I'm vindictive and cruel,  I would betray you in a heartbeat.
I am sad and envious and spoiled and I always have been.
I don't have a righteous bone in my body.

I am rebellious and weak.

I am I am

a sidenote in your story.

So don't give me your respect,
I know you think it'll work.

I don't want your love and admiration
I can't take it.
Give me instead hatred and condemnation.

Write me off as a lost cause, a bully, a weakling.

This I can live with, this I deserve.
If were all redeemable there would be no point
So let me serve the purpose I was meant to serve.

Hi there
I believe we've met
I saw you sitting all the way over
                             next to me, quiet.
"Are you ok?" - I ask because I care
tearing apart myself
can't bear to not remember
I need to ask you better questions
questions like "Are you ok?"
                           Am I ok?
I'm so bad at conversation and I am
robotic and expressionless but
you help me express feeling that
           screams alive
I saw you sitting all the way over there
so I came closer and
put my arm around you
and you...
                   flinched

7 and one half years ago
you were in my room
and i was on my computer.

i wrote the password to log in, but i
made a mistake because i was nervous
and i backspaced all of it.

you noticed.
you said "i do that too when i mess up"
i didn't realize at the time, that i would remember that about you

and my birthday party.  you were the only one
to show up
and my dad made you listen to ICP,
i'm still sorry about that.

i haven't forgotten any of it



i wish i could think about you without hating myself

Sidenote: I highly recommend listening to these songs/watching the musical, it is amazing.

Example:
Song title: Lyrics *My thoughts/feelings

Anybody Have A Map?:

Anybody maybe happen to know how the hell to do this?*  
I'm in this confusion so deep that I can't find a way out.
I'm flying blind, and I'm making this up as I go.
Ha. Me too.

Waving Through a Window:

Step out, step out of the sun if you keep getting burned.
I've been burning forever.
Waving through a window!
Put your soul into this song.

For Forever:

We share.
Together.
All we see is sky for forever.
An ecstasy I do not know.
All we see is light, 'cause the sun burns bright!
Shouting hallelujah from here.
Life will be alright for forever this way.
I hope so.

Sincerely, Me:

All that it takes is a little reinvention!
I need that.
All you gotta do, is just believe you can be who you wanna be.
Just believing right?
Sincerely, ME!
Yep.

Requiem:

I will sing no requiem.
Neither will I.
I gave you the world, you threw it away. Leaving these broken pieces behind you.
I know.
Everything wasted, nothing to say.
I know.
Within these words I finally find you.
The words are not mine.
Now that I know that you are still here.
I am?

If I Could Tell Her:

But he kept it all inside his head, what he saw, he left unsaid.
Secrets work wonders do they not?
If I could tell her, tell her everything I see. If I could tell her how she's everything to me. But we're a million worlds apart... And I don't know how I would even start.
How do we begin to say the words?...

Disappear:

No one deserves to be forgotten. No one deserves to fade away.
Nobody.
No one should come and go, and have no one know he was ever even here.
I'll make sure of it.

You Will Be Found:

Well, let that lonely feeling... wash away.
I should let the weight drop from my shoulders.

To Break In A Glove:

And a little uphill climb.
Just more work.
For a kid who's lost control.
I'm just trying to make sense of it all.

Only Us:

Try to quiet the noises in your head. We can't compete with all that.
No we can't. But we try.

Good For You:

And you say what you need to say, so that you get to walk away.
Everyday.
I hope that it's all that you want and more.
I'm not proud.
And you play who you need to play.
I did.
JUST LET ME OUT!
I am not okay.

Words Fail:

I never thought that it would go this far.
I really didn't.
So I just stand here sorry. Searching for something to say.
I am still searching.
There's nothing I can say.
There really isn't.
Words fail.
They do.
That's a worthy explanation, I know. Nothing can make sense of all these things I've done.
I wish I could make it up to you.
So how do I step in...

Step into the sun?

I wish I knew how...

So Big/So Small:

And I knew I'd come up short a million different ways.
And I did.
And I do.
And I will.
And I will... I already have...

Finale:

Today is going to be a good day, and here's why:
Because today, at least you're you and that's enough...
That's enough.

All I see is sky for forever...

Curtains close.

I'm going home.

Yeah... I'm going home.

the night was black velvet,

and you were a castle.

squadrons deployed. everything permanent is still removable if you ignore it enough. revising your lackadaisical list of priorities. repeat play and an ashtray full of roaches. at this point even nostalgia feels classic. cross your t’s and then just x out everything. circle the names of your favorite cities. hands held, grudges kept. i swear somewhere i’ve got something left. in my head the rescuers are always gonna be the ones who go down (under) in history. everyone else is just running their mouth or grinding their teeth. there are some lies left over but who cares? this might be the worst ever. or the best yet. i guess we’ll know for sure soon enough. i right clicked through this like five times because of what i’ve got flowing through my veins. sidenote: i miss you.

Scratch it,

That's not you!

Because that's not what I wrote

And God knows your dedication for turning tables,

It's impeccable.

That could have been me today

Or probably not

Because I'm at the bottom of the barrel,

The last thought in the foodchain

That's not you,

That's who replaced me.

As a final declaration of my intention
I want you to know that I'll always be around
Anytime and anywhere, I'll always be somewhere whether you know it or not
When your going about your day, driving to wherever you go or when your on your last leg and shot
If you look hard enough you can probably catch a glimpse if you take the time to stop

This might sound creepy and I admit it because it's true
But this is what I do and I can't change because this is the way I've always been
I'm older than you know, though my skin and hair and eyes are young
This may be pretty hard to grasp since what I'm saying is pretty far flung
You can say whatever you will but, dear, I promise you I've heard every song you've sung

So if you accept this or deny this, it really makes no difference
It's just the way it is and the way it is is pretty simple
You're there and then so am I, it doesn't matter if I want to be
It's only science and the nature of how we move and we both see
Just take this as a warning or just a sidenote in case you think you might be able to flee

I was not made to be a waitress. To carry plates and pull pints and count coins and be able to breathe at the same time. I should have given up. Four years in and my boss was still telling them that it was my first night, not to mention that time someone half-jokingly asked me, a completely sober seventeen year old with an anxiety disorder in a family owned bistro in white middle-class conservative Hexham, if I was drunk. I was not made for fake confidence and biting back tears, for toilet cubicle walls and breathe in, breathe out, all you had to do was carry the potatoes to table five. I was not made to be a waitress in the same way that I was not made to understand the art of mathematics. The times tables in their white linen shirts stained with my clumsiness laughing at me as I dropped plates and couldn’t subtract fifty four pence from five pounds seventy two at the till. I wasn’t made for sequence. For questions with definite answers, I was not made for having to be right. I was made for having to be wrong. Over and over, for ******* up a lime and soda, or was it lemon? Four years into a job. I was made for honesty. For answering you truthfully when you ask me what I am thinking. I was made for chocolate on the hob and strawberries tickled with sugar in hand, for the familiarity of the songs of a home friend’s band, I was made for softness. For your lips on my lips and my hands on your hips and the imprint of your freckles on my cheek. I was made for learning that this is not weak. For learning that I was made for me.  For dancing badly and laughing loudly and eating messily. We, on the other hand, were not made for each other the way people appear to be on film, the megabus trips without air-conditioning and the seven inches and 165 miles that fall between us the ever persistent proof. I was not made for you, designed so that our lives would perfectly intertwine but what does it matter when in this moment I think I was made for this. For half-lit, half-fit bliss. For reading poetry to you at three am until you fall asleep, when all that is left is the hum of your breath as my voice echoes milk and honey, making me feel like I could be made for anything, even though we’re apart.

Sidenote: June ’17- this time there was only one 'first night' at my new job.

These stories contain a character so accurate,
so flawed,
so
beautiful that if any author tried to recreate him
or her, that person would be laughed off the stage.
Which,
excuse the sidenote,
probably means they are the only
genious in the room. The character is of course
you, and the answer is, of course…LOVE!
Now at this point I can see you are already fed up with me
and for that I understand.
I understand because of course
love is not the answer!
That lovey dovey *******
No, the real answer is even simpler.
Stories.
We live.
We Die.
We live and die for stories.
Love is how we should treat people.
To live one’s life
with as much love as possible
Your humble author included.
Love is Pandora’s hope.
Love is the elephant in the room of life.
Love is good.
Love is evil.
Love is death.
Love is life.
Love is not the reason for life.
We do not wake.
every morning searching for love.
We do.
wake every morning searching for.
stories.

When I rose this morning,
With sweat on my head.
I noticed the difference,
And climbed out of bed.
The warmth of the room,
Helped not the gloom.
And no-ones soft breathing,
This place is a tomb.

The  quiet unsettled,
And this for hope.
I dressed up disheveled,
Feeling much like a joke.
Drudging about,
As the clock again spoke.

Into the brightness,
Glad for cologne.
Smelling awesome makes you feel awesome-sidenote
The gears started grinding,
Tires gripping the road.
Music not helping,
As louder it grew
Thoughts ever flooding,
While ashes flew.
The minutes were seconds,
Finally something to do.

So I can’t trust the Times, Fox News, or the Post.
Too left or too right, just parasites hungry for hosts.
From you, fellow tax-paying citizen, I take note.
I listen to you — that angry defense of your vote.
Are you going to tell me what I am able to trust?
Before this land of the free is left to ruins and rust?
Silence speaks volumes,
like the encyclopedia I loved, circa ‘94—
devoured for hours on my living floor.
(Sidenote: That encyclopedia included several pages on
the Holocaust. But then, I suppose,
the Encyclopedia Britannica shouldn’t be trusted either?)
So what must I trust if I can’t share the news
without being challenged because of my views?
You say I can’t trust the posted or printed, so instead,
I'll trust something much louder in my heart and my head.  
I'll trust that empowered white supremacy in a place
where "all men are created equal," is something I refuse to embrace.
I'll trust that our freedom of speech is not our freedom to hate.
Black, brown, yellow, white— that’s not up for debate.
I'll trust that hope will swallow such hate in the blink of an eye—
choke the breath from its lungs and drop a beat to its cry.

And then I'll trust that history will one day forget
that we've failed to keep its pages from repeating just yet.

I want that night
3am
To shut him up
No need for
Pretend
Don't say it
Though I said that before
If you don't mean it
Not a single word
More...

Sidenote:
He fought me that night
Said he knew he didn't have to
That this was what he felt
And when I dismissed it
Even repeated himself....

He kissed me
Under blankets
Darkness
Without ***

Lies and pretending
The actor in his best
Role
In a drama
I'm crying tears
From rom com
To broken
I'm shattered
And feel
In all of my agony
*******
It was real
Wanting his arms
Though he
Loves me not
Still.....

©MV

depression is like a lot of things
tonight it is like this:
-empathizing with the tea kettle who screams and screams until someone comes along and removes her from the fire
-clutching tightly onto a way too hot mug despite the discomfort because at least you feel something tangible (sidenote, related) comparable to holding a piece of your own heart/a piece of someone else's
-listening to every song you can think of that will make you cry and doing absolutely nothing about it
-coming home from work with expectations of accomplishment but staying in bed/isolating for the remainder of the day
-avoiding mirrors, or even worse getting lost in them for a half hour trying to figure out what exactly you even look like
-inducing an early sleep cycle to avoid any further feelings of heaviness

but it is ok!
or at least it will be!
tomorrow is a new day for us all
-

/the "incurable" truth of having read a philosophy book, aged 21, like some sort of gateway, having never been exposed to the "genre" prior to... and then realising... unlearning the rigidity of having studied chemistry in hope of pursuing a menial profession... while at the same time savouring a youthful taste for humanism, in Dante and Stendhal... somehow there must be a reconciling vein of thinking... given... sure as **** i'd settle for playing the piano in my spare time...

a rigid post scriptum, because, what else?
poetry as a form:
   for spatially coordinating an
anti-****** of narration, which is
                                  ars (poetica) per se...
esp. these days...
   coincidence of a moth being dormant
in my room upon finishing the kundera bluff?
or just allowing it to gently land on
my hand, inverted exposing a weak wrist?
moths are so much more
friendly, or rather, less shy...
                           than butterflies...
that famous persistence of a moth banging
against a lightbulb in masochism,
burn, after burn,
             blind moth flew and touched
the sun, lunatic moth spoke to butterflies
of the sun...
     hidden in every nook and cranny
during its lunar escapades...
        stupid butterflies only felt the need
to bask in honey...
            and mimic surrounding
colours...
            but moths... travelled through
spring, summer, autumn,
  and on the odd occassion...
becoming akin to the mutant generic fly
rudely woken from hibernation
in winter...
        this one, feeling a common warmth,
flew out of nowhere,
  danced the dance of thieves' knives
with me, touched me once, and subsequently
hid behind a painting on my wall...
apparently i, dormant fire,
    "unconsciously" gloated:
   ah! to hell with all this scientific terminology
subtracting the basic, creative impetus
for the language of man!
   nonetheless!
            such is the nature of originating
with the a priori of chaos...
                and the a posteriori of order...
and whatever metaphorical dualism
takes your fancy...
                   but as a sidenote,
   in pop-culture...
                 scatter-brain says:
       my thoughts are never what they once
were, in terms of coherence, in terms
of entertaining others,
    within the confines of cogitatio qua narratio...
no... the whole off-shoot
of res cogitans, is moments such
as this...
               what pop is made ref. as
ego-tripping?
               hence my attempt at my own
dialectic working from descartes...
   res vanus: empty thing...
                           i am... void-tripping!
ego attaches sum attaches potential
      or attaches a lack of potential (bragging)...
          what is void-tripping?
music, primarily...
                    an uncoiling serpent,
                 a breathing dragon,
                           a scared mammal...    
and then the collective gape of mammalian
counters to debase the crypt of
shed skin, scaly tattoos...
             from lizard, to mammal,
           and unto the insect comes the gaping
Aeon March...
              the moth, the larvae of wasps,
or as the Hindu sages say:
          spare the ant,
                          glorify the worker...
    of this genesis of life,
                       insurrected from within
by pathogens, viruses,
  armies beholding the moth-head as god...
point being...
            ego-tripping is a luxury within
the confines of res cogitans:
         of "thinking"...                  qua ego...
         void-tripping? is a luxury within
the confines of res vanus:
          of "being",                       qua sum;
void-tripping is a pulse...
    a pulsating sensation of an
expanding and contracting space...
      i can only assume that ego-tripping
is a threshold,
    a humming sensation of a past
  and future time in
  the acute sense of a blink
of an eye (calculus of the trig.
tangens f(x) - if that can be visualised,
                  rather than "understood").

sure... people can speak the language
of the people that also know how
to haggle... gamble...
                      and become prey to debt...
the lingua of commerce...
            i could write a ****-show
of a teenager's wet-dream when it comes
to love...
                  but i guess there are worse
regrets than finding the Crusoe
  of literature that's philosophy aged 21...
****... could have been lysergic acid
or something...
                and the english students
can write their english books...
                   because: english students need
to write something in english...

         i'm going to have to resort
                 to writing something in: human;
with the inconvenience of
it being written using english;
       which i suppose is equivalent to
talking about Islam in arabic these days,
must feel pretty ****** talking
about Islam in arabic these days...
                   nothing wrong, eh?
                                               nothing?
pretty much the same as talking
human feels like, talking in english
                                                  these days.
perhaps the idea is true:
   but certain tongues exhaust
       the transcendental construct of idea...
Islam has one fallacy in its current
affair with genesis:
                     the adherence to arabic...
    seen the ***** of Tangier and
                       the Gomorrah od Dubai?!

the ancient greeks
would call
asia's mysticism
nothing more
than a tautology...

tao:

the tao that can be
named,
is not the eternal
tao...

i see one tao:
the best way
you can help
the world,
is to forget the world,
and let the world
to forget you...

like some Irish
poet once wrote;
who was it?

ah!
louis macneice
in ehyeh asher ehyeh...

in der beginn
und der ende
der nur dezent definition
ist tautologie:
mann ist mann,
   frau frau,
    und baum baum,
und welt... welt...

which is the basic
principle of asiatic
"mysticism"...
der ding dass ist, ist...
und der ding dass nicht ist:
         ist
nein-ist,
                  
aber nicht: nein!

watching Swedish drama
i took to understand
the difference between
nein and nicht:
and nichts...

circus of nouns...
Asiatic mysticism -
tautology...

            nein ist nicht ein absolut
    nein:

   the Asiatic folk
spiced it all up
with an addition of
adjectives... nichts mehr...

how can i have
an opinion about England,
not being an Englishman?
sidenote...

i'm no migrant exotica,
i am not luxury:
given that i am economic...
hence
my desire to hide
in German,
whenever i can,
while entertaining
the use of English...

i can't have an opinion
about England,
because i am not an Englishman
and the Englishman's
opinion is worth:
jack-****...

              out of curiosity,
i watch,
and... too apprehensive
about waiting
i forget to wait...

         wenn da eine nachleben:
ich hoffen zu spreschen
deutsche...

i was born in Poland...
so...
what do sie denken my
meinung of England är,
given that i'm not an Englishman
and i'd föredra to speak
Deutsche
after death,
than be plagued by
this acquired tongue?

i don't have an opinion
worthy of it being designated
as having accommodation
to encompass said land,

    i'm only here in passing:
i wish!

              but for not being
a pompous brat,
my servitude is that of the natives...
of which i am not...
hence my minor
ploys of escapism in
german...

somehow...
a few words in German
alleviates the burden
of seeing the natives
buckle before
             whoever reigns...

but being white,
i could almost pass off as
a Brit...
i can, and do...
and then on occassion:
i don't.

how can i write anything spectacular, these days?
of all the days: these are not: bon jovi's these days:
full album listened to...
am i going to become a plain jane medium
of events? hardly...
i can't write anything spec-ta-cular...
because... i find enigmas in the details:
the devils can heave their own load of events...
i can't write anything spectacular...
i'm not mad enough to drink 14 strong coffees
akin to Balzac to keep myself: tuned...
the base event: walking at night having your eyes
stolen by your shadow: ending up looking
for a mirror - or a puddle - neither readily
available: back into sketches of language...
because a narrator will hardly come -
or a full cast ensemble - choir-esque...
there's the happy to get along with:
old enough - ft. ricky skaggs & ashley monroe...
pirate of the: ca-rr- ca-rrí-b'ean...
and not: pirates of the: cari-b'evenin'suss...
carribean and not: carry-bean... mr. bean:
mr. magic beans to you...
back in england: as is always the governing
precursor -
mastic fantastic and mr. magic magnolias!
in the construction trade...
turns out rubber is also the prized asset
of constructing a tent -
and the not enough bundles of ****** are
hard to find...
but i can't write anything spectacular...
what's to be allowed: status: spectacular...
when a dancing shadow is everything
while i stand rooted into form like
a turnip and a stump of a former glory of oak...
the shadow that falls from the moon
and lands under a streetlamp...
and i say: forget the mirrors!
i'm looking at the prize: of when narcissus
finally made it to hades!
with additional details... something
of any worth of anything...
a drunkard lullaby who wakes up to a delirium
before finding the calm sea
and a boat... 'who dare bring women
and mirrors onto a ship?!'
voyage like none other...
and we would bring chickens for the eggs...
and violins to ease our ears from
shabby carpenters' work on the deck...
and... we most certainly brought
flutes with us... hell... the whole brass section
of an orchestra... to somehow pray...
and appease... the Anemoi...
if not eased by jazz we'd **** or at least
do the second best of a clarinet quartet concerto...
i did find that men read for a reason:
while women read to pass the time -
passing time -
with all the given space...
it's that one aspect of physical reality
that remains: play-dough riddling...
the Anemoi as the lesser -
otherwise the grand ghost of a breath that
pushes the Gaia into a pirouette in orbit...
some call it the wind -
i call it the ghost's breath - the arch ghost -
otherwise: well h'america is very, really:
the pristine heidegger base of a / the: "being" there...
sidenote... as h'america happens...
old europe is finding its locum among
the feral tribes that: once upon a time
used to nibble -
h'america just happens...
what the hell happened to the mandolin
via the banjo?
it's nonetheless such a distance...
the culture is exported but...
as the exported wheat...
it never becomes the returned dough
of a bread to be eaten -
the wheat to flour process probably
passed via Columbia or... some other cheap-***
metaphor...
these feet stood in russia...
these eyes saw russia...
i hardly think i will see or stand on the ground:
just across the pond...
"mighty me" for wanting to retain the remains
of whatever integrity is to be eaten:
as a leftover...
no qualms...
but i have been duly looking for...
substitute cultural references...
if i had to dig as far back as teutonic crusader
folk songs... that's quiet telling...
because this language is better written -
should it ever be said...
i'm... not exactly looking for a stage -
and clown-make-up.

As I sat in the corner of that dark room
All I could see was emptiness.
What might fall upon me in this space?
Far, a dim light brightens the room.
What might it be?
I try to get closer, but the distance does not seem to shrink.
I start to run, but the distance does not seem to shrink.
I give up. I can’t.
I go back to my corner and close my eyes.
Maybe I will be gone soon.
Everything goes brighter and brighter…and brighter.
I open them. The dim light; it is so close. I can reach it.
Do it. I know you can. Don’t ever give up.

Sidenote: 2LnZhNmFINij2YbZhtmKINi52YTZiSDZiNi02YMg2KfZhNiq2LPZiNmELiDZhNio2­LnYtiDYp9mE2KPYs9io2KfYqCDZgtix2LHYqiDYqtis2LHYqNipINio2LnYtiDYp9­mE2KPYr9ioLiDZg9iq2KfYqNipINmI2YLYsdin2KHYqS4g2YTZhNij2LPZgSDYjCD­Zg9mE2YXYpyDYstin2K8g2LnYr9ivINin2YTZg9iq2Kgg2KfZhNiq2Yog2KPYrdio­2YMg2Iwg2YPZhNmF2Kcg2KfZhtiu2YHYtiDYqti12YXZitmF2YouINmE2Kcg2KPYs­9iq2LfZiti5INij2YYg2KPYrNivINmH2LDYpyDYp9mE2YPYqtin2KguINmD2YQg2L­TZitihINi52YTZiSDZhdinINmK2LHYp9mFIC4uLiDYtNin2K3YqC4g2LrZitixINi­j2LXZhNmKLiDZhtmB2LMg2KfZhNmF2YHZh9mI2YUg2Iwg2YXYrNix2K8g2YjYrNmH­2Kkg2YbYuNixINij2K7YsdmJINibINmI2YTZgtivINix2KPZitiqINmD2YTZh9mFI­OKAi+KAi9iq2YLYsdmK2KjZi9inLiDZhNiw2Kcg2Iwg2KjZhdinINij2YbZhtmKIN­mE2Kcg2KPYs9iq2LfZiti5INij2YYg2KPYrNivINmI2KzZh9ipINmG2LjYsdmKINi­n2YTZhdir2KfZhNmK2Kkg2Iwg2YHZhNmF2KfYsNinINmE2Kcg2KPZgtmI2YUg2KjY­pdmG2LTYp9im2YfYp9ifINij2LnYt9mG2Yog2K/Yp9im2YXZi9inINiq2LnZhNmK2YLYp9iqINit2YjZhCDYo9mKINi02YrYoSDZhNin­INiq2K3YqNmHLiDYo9mG2Kcg2K3ZgtinINij2LHZitivINij2YYg2KPYrdiz2YYg2­YbZgdiz2YouINiz2YTYp9mFIQ==

i did not have a childhood

or, not a real one.
it feels hazy, lost, scattered
its—

like the static of a broken tv
unable to find a signal—
like the scratches of a broken record
struggling to piece together swing music—
like the fading of an ancient polaroid
lacking its vibrance and unable to keep its picture—

my memories are a black and white movie,
reminiscent of the old hollywood of
elizabeth taylor and montgomery clift—
a film in which i am being played by someone else.

(sidenote: if i could choose anyone to play me in a film, i would choose james dean)

but, i am numb.

i did not have a childhood.

alongside the songs herr mannelig
             and herr holger -
  garmarna...

     would you believe it...
i couldn't... holger: juniperus squamata...
juniper...
i don't quiete remember what's
it used for...

to have little ol' me bothered about...
view counts...
perhaps i'm being lazy...
    perhaps i'm... what's already available...

but i have a contender...
   hammock - ketonic... 2005...

and... godspeed you! black emperor...
F♯ A♯ ∞ -
       by god i still can't fathom
that this ever took place in 1998!

having to invest in 100 years...
as a sidenote: hopefully i do not come
out as a plagiarism within
the confines of your: gratefully... anonymous...

better things have come out
of canada than... rush or pearl jam...
if you can sieve half an hour...
F♯ A♯ ∞ is an album for you...

what is post-punk or post-rock...
  post-rock from radiohead?
    postponed prog-rock?
        godspeed you! black emperor...
the album came out in 1998...
i was still young and busying myself
with fan boy teen angst and tool...
i discovered...

              so mentioned...
a good... 18 years later...
                big things have happened in the world...
little things also...
greater things with a world-as-solo...
lesser things this these greater things
of so little... concern: for the greater world...

i want to mind them...
confine myself to: borrow from...
the grand arch of nouns...
call for a seamstress sophie...
and her love of... the breaking
of urns... and her shadow twin...
pandora...
           but... i can only think of...

Ernst Zimmer...
                  who kept... Hölderlin...
                in a room in a tower...
  overlooking the Neckar river in Tübingen...
freely...
           in light of both giving
some variation of consent...
i too would give all the world:
to be this... given this: ghastly cage(d)...
21st century hopes... hyperion?
to write new: new...
burn the old? to ask the same questions:
what's new is what's revised...

the spanish might have conquered
the "lesser" people of south america...
but at the same time...
the mongols: the lesser people...
clearly no affiliation with african
mothers and tatas...
conquered india... china... the muslim
empire... and teased christendom...
so... who's ode or what **** wits' boor
to baron the sodden crisp of...
moving... forward?
                       once upon a time...
all might kneel before the cruficix...
but before a converted brownie point count
so... glorious in his imaginary whip...
holding...

Eswatini will not... dream big...
the vatican of the continent: some might add...
will only welcome... easily converted...
castrato guards of the quasi-zulu king's harem...
big-****-para-bongo...
like... you hear it... and you're like...
'i'm pretty ******* sure...
some consonants are missing...'
the vowels might all be there...
but... thereafter?

                i don't even want to bother...
invade... india...
with latin script... you will get the sanskrit
backlash...
invade china... you'll get back...
your letters eaten by ideograms...
invade saudi arabia... giggles-and-squiggles...
invade greece: they'll spit cyrillic back
at you...
invade anywhere with latin...
you'll get all you want...
until judgement day...
when the leeches will answer back...
and drag you back to... where you belong
with "them" having found "them"...

well... it was truly nice of you to give
us the 20th century...
mighty nice of you...
too bad... you won't be... culturally...
exporting anything new...
into the current century...
beside... the overlooked library;
which is doubly nice!
time will seem to extend beyond...
what smells nice in a boquet of
flowers and will start to...
be scented with broths and...
what you brought back from Rajastan
and the like.
          
don't fake it... you didn't bring back
the dough from Nepal...
the idea... you might have...
but the Nepalese lamas weren't throwing
a big think stink over... eating...
uncooked cookie dough...
of course minus the caribbean sugar: dodo!
so don't ben & jerry my ***...

very nice... fun nice...
               100 years from now...
               looking for a tomorrow is suicide.