someone once said: only the natives can be designated
free speech...
the immigrants can have their dog
and let it bark, along with whatever thinking comes
their way...

exploring the last remains of thought -
well then... suit and boot me up for some "thinking"
as i extend it into writing...

if i were of the native stock... "elsewhere":
most probably h'america or australia... even in italy
having tea with mussolini i'd be:
an expat... as an outsider among outsiders
but among my sameness-namesakes of surnames
akin to jones and smith:

i will never be an "immigrant" among...
it's not even a voice of cocern, this little voice of
mine...
an englishman who decides to move
to h'america is an expatriate for the native
englishman who stayed behind...
he's never an immigrant...

perhaps other nations view the people that left
them in such a positive light?
where else to emigrate to that doesn't
speak basic english with a tinge of
a "welcoming" plethora of accents?

proudly having expatriated...
or having to have had to humbly emigrated...
bark bite and tail in tow...
my the luck of being an expatriate...
readily prepared with a francophile basis...
e.g., or some other: less frost-bitten
idealism as the work ethic of:
work work work...

we know the english immigrants
as expatriates... but i doubt that people
from where i from would call me...
an expatriate... they'd call me...
eh... hangman noose... a deserter...
god forbid the fact that i somehow managed
to integrate... but then found myself wondering...

have, have integrated into... "what"?!
today i was truly astounded...
after all... Romford, Essex... England...
can boast about a few things...
notably? it's the past place you can buy vinyl
without amazon.co.uk...
you can actually play the buyer and the person
that loiters with his shadow...
flicking through a dictionary of sorts...
finding a record...

i actually left the house for ulterior motives...
but i succumbed to the allure...
and as i walked the January 2nd 2020 highstreet
in Romford...
i heard english... as a spoken language...
twice in the pedestrian commute...
and of course when it came to a lingua franca
scenario of buying or selling something...
otherwise:

perhaps i retained my primitive instincts
and the tongue and should have left it with a ghost
of me back in the clarifying vicinity of
an airport 50 miles from Warsaw...
i have bigger things to worry about though:
how i should start learning Romanian...
even though: i thought bilingualism was a good
idea?
it's not?

not among the natives could i ever be
an expatriate...
an ever: never... like any more thesaurus
sharpening would do the trick to balance
the optics of "perspective"...

if it wasn't a mistake...
it has still been a purchase:
freddie hubbard on the trumpet,
jackie mclean on the alto sax,
kenny drew on piano,
doug watkins on bass
and pete la roca on drums...

the only reason as to why i bought
a gramaphone was to buy the only cheap vinyl
there is... jazz...
to escape the earphones...
to find the complete volume of space
that would later be deemed:
confined to a room... cell... or some alternative
variation: but... oh jeez...
how wrong it was of me...

make a note: alto sax jazz is not for you...
remember: alto sax jazz is not for you...

a sensation of being a foreigner in
an already double-dutch foreign sense of land...
anything that drops from clinching
to the London transport system
with the trains and the tubes and buses
is: england...
the england of my youth where i remained
like that... dunce in the ****** tunes cartoons
interlude...

and what of my citizenship on paper?
wave a passport around
like a benchmark or an otherwise easy
accent-identifier?
perhaps i don't even know:
Bristolian - my best guess with this acquired
tongue...

but at least buying jazz is getting easier...
freddie hubbard a known name...
but... no... alto sax jazz is not for me...
now it figures...
i can get away on a whim when
a trumpet solos... but not when an alto sax
solos... i really can't stomach it...
will i give this Bluesnik record back?
no, i need a testament -
i have bought something
but the self-reflection is free...

there's only so much classical music escapism
you can try -
before long you realise that the people
listening to classical music...
mostly... when they make requests...
want "something soothing"...
want "something jovial"...
or usually it's a piece of music that has
been attached to a movie...
classical music - apparently doesn't feed
people a subtle stream of images...
and it's obvious: those requests are not phoned
in on by blind people...

imagine... the ****** of F... when you have ⠋
to work with...
what is an sunrise... a sunset but a dash
of colour... a spring of the heavens
an autumn of the heavens...
but my my... in this inverted listening of jazz...
⠙⠑⠑⠏
⠃⠇⠥ ⠑    DEEP BLUE...

if i were blind: and came to the pearly gates...
i'd ask for letters: primo pronto!
later i'd worry about colours and shapes...
as i'd probably stick to my first passion
and hearing this fathomless shapeless
sounds that... abide to no lineage with a recant
of a triangle's use of 90°...

otherwise... what if you've been fed
the: classical music when listened to when a child
will increase your i.q. -
but what are the chances that you will:
"regress" from listening to classical
music and take to jazz?
perhaps because jazz has to be felt,
it has to be heard, first,
rather than... the silence and scribbles
of a composer at his desk -
where a classical music composition
is very much like writing:
that whole a prior shabang!
none of the a posteriori zigzagging
of impromptu and jazz?

one thing is certain... i'm not going to
be a fan of alto sax jazz...
sonny clark on piano - yes...
art blakey on drums - yes...
kenny burrell on guitar - yes...
alto sax no... ah... but give me tenor sax
and... no please no big bang jazz
equivalent to thelonious monk...
at least jazz gives you pedestrian tastes
and whims...
nothing akin to bowing at the altar
of a Beethoven: or talking lightly of
the man - "the man"...

and who the hell said that being
objectivity "works all the time"
that objectivity "runs the marathon"...
alto sax jazz is pedestrian music...
don't get me wrong...
you want to walk down a busy street
and you want to drown the sounds
of progress: no horses sneezing,
no horses' hooves playing tic-tac-toe
chess on cobweb stones...
alto sax jazz is your take-out
walk-through...
but when you're hunched in a chair
and pecking at a keyboard with
ten good beaks of the tips of your fingers...

again: how do the hands rest before
the keyboard?
the right hand:
index middle, pinky and thumb...
the ring finger is used for the: delete button...
a revision - the pinky does the enter -
and the cascade follows...
the left hand?

primarily the index and *******...
the thumb is always attached to space...
shared with the right hand's *******
to space,
i can't remember if i ever used my ring
or pinky finger of my left arm...

so much for inverted chiromancy...
the polacks will never give me the wings
to be an expatriate...
i will be forever: he who abandoned
that land running with milk and honey...
but... look at how they stand behind those
from england that decided to go "elsewhere"...
they are not immigrants...
they are... expatriates...
have nothing filthy them it comes to
the connotation...
it's not sad it's not funny it's: somewhere
"in between"...

because we know that the only russians
that ever make it out of russia
are the oligarchs... and by that standard
of "sentiment": they're always welcome...
who wouldn't welcome the pharaohs without
giza pyramid ambitions of construction?!
passing chalk as cheese -
and passing... ink for blood...
perhaps i haven't sweated enough to be allowed
to write but as little as this...

there's always this sense of alienation
among the germanic tribes of "israel":
europe... even if they are the scots or the welsh
suckling at the teats of romulus & remus' lupa...
as the old saying goes among the slavic people
when "integrating" into a germanic-esque society -
by the time you have integrated...
there's this dog-**** pile of Babylon left...
and the germans are: "nowhere"!

the saying goes via:
if you go among the crows...
you must croak their croak...

here's to flying high as an imitation seagull!
brazen: into this arable land...
that's being teased by the Thames estuary...

passing through a Warsaw train station
i noticed the immigrants / the expatriates
on the eastern front...
mostly mongols...
notably the ukrainians...
but now in england i'm starting to think
in concrete terms... better start learning
Romanians...
and on the street: you can't see a focus of
who's here and who isn't here...
back east the Roma people stood out
like a sore thumb or a voodoo plum and...
that didn't bother the locals since they were
meshed like glue...
but, here, in england?
everyone's a sore thumb a voodoo plum...
because the natives,
the blessed idiosyncratic professional
eccentrics have left and...
i'm not going to be the first chasing them down...

London the only and last bastion is
overrun with the whole lot of us...
well: the "us" vs. "them" mentality...
don't get me wrong... i'll still listen to the concerns
of the peripheries... in this cest pool
of immigrants, degenerates...
old people who "forgot" to move...
the lunatics the in-betweeners and the old guard
clinging on...
perhaps, after all... english was a very
accomodating language...
it wouldn't take a genius to learn it from scratch
being thrown into the deep end of the pool
aged 8...
who was mute aged 8 going to school
being moved from "east" europe to this island
with... no prior to linguistic connection?
moi...

and now look at me... i'm teasing myself
with... sordid welsh as if i were ever the posterboy
for welsh nationalism...
scottish nationalism? eh... if they were to retain
their gaellic roots...

expansion:
the longing for those who have left:
in the anglo-sphere - expatriate...
the abhoring sense of those who arrive -
immigrant...
otherwise... the english are always
and everywhere: welcome...
hence the expatriate status of those
who have left their native land...
even in h'america: a shared language:
to be an immigrant... while speaking
the same language?! how preposterous!

the difference between eastern style
comedy presentation and western style
comedy presentation: on stage...

the eastern folk prefer cabaret: theatre dialogue
montages...
the western folk prefer stand-up:
monologue samuel beckett esque
performances...
'woe i... stand alone in this infinite
space and... find others to laugh with...'

- perhaps we're not being less funny because
we're lowering our "i.q.": yes, the we are...
we are... lowering...
i find lee evans to be funny...
a laurel and hardy weren't exactly funny
by modern comedy standards that:
it's only funny if it's intelligent...
if there's a crossword puzzle at the end of "it"...

perhaps pride is the shackle...
and ham... what ever happened to self-depreciating
humor that managed to somehow
elevate you as also having a sense
of humor:
do intelligent men even laugh
at something that isn't a word-play or
a corset of wit?
perhaps we're experiencing a drying of wip...
perhaps the jokes are only supposed
to come: days after as a form of
reflection on the sigma canvas:
the joke has to exist outside the performer
and the stage... it needs to be: a live-experience...
it has to take on DASEIN qualities?
it has to be internalised?

that: oh yeah... that's funny...
perhaps the same thing has to be observed
and it can't be retold in an impromptu
fashion shackled to a stage?
the stage is the new camp-fire?
i thought so too... about the television...

as: here's to slagging off everything that's
being published online bypassing
the editorial process of selection...
well... if it weren't for all the seriousness
surrounding internet banking...
and internet shopping...
pen to paper...
******* clinching a ripped roll
of cushioning paper
and a pseudo-***** imitation
for a wipe while massaging my prostate
over the enlightened prospect
of dropping the blitzkrieg plump-dump-plum
into an echoing lake in the ceramic basin...
otherwise...

a seanse with that moment of realisation:
"something is happening to us
collectively"... it's as if: we're under a spell...
oh i was under a spell today...
watching alec guinness in the fall of the roman
empire...
and as coming from a people
that were never conquered by rome?
on this fine fine island that was...
well... my hopes were also high for
the conquests of the mongol empire...
and the remains of it in the form of the tatars
in crimea...

here are my tattoos... it's hard to break from them,
it's hard to wash them away...
but at least i can attest:
my brain might be all fat and sponge and
electricity... but there's some skull and skin
to be had of it...
otherwise... why would the year 1066
be important for me... why would the magna carta
be important for me?
i too have my years in tattoos on this big brian
of mine...

otherwise there's that copernico-darwinian
surge of: journalistic science...
i still find it staggering that darwinism continues
to capture the imagination of people...
"of people"... only in Wittgenstein was left
alone in finding that Copernicus did something
astounding... this surge of "awakening"
via darwinism: this statistical bombardment
like it was some tabloid journalism:
throwing a pebble at a mountain while
also ushering in a mantra: grow by
a poppy's seed added height! grow!

perhaps i'm just jealous...
among the polacks i will never be an expatriate...
what a jealous people...
an englishman who moves to france...
comes 20 year later...
he will have never experienced
the mark of cain: immigration "humphrey bogart"...
he or she moved to france...
perhaps to italy...
i remember being in greece and...
i was nothing when i said i was ******:
but with british citizenship! to add...
so what?
well... so what greece...
i latched onto some north africans
and went to **** away the night
in some strip-bar where i had
two strippers either head o' mine...
and it was constellations galore...
grandmother Etna said:
rest here, among the smooches poor child...

i borrowed Etna from when Aeneas
"left off"...
****'s sake... this is the Meditarrean
and not the Baltic? where is the amber
the whiskey and the leverage of gratations
of time?!

i will agree. Macedonia come night traffic
of quicksilver tinging?
if the metal is cheap and you douse it in some gold?
a mountain dripping fresh from some quicksilver
from the moon peering at it?
objectivity what?

the finite plateau of snow-riddled Serbia...
and perhaps that's because these people
speak their own language...
and have so... and i'm just the next
"english" tourist...
a jack kerouac americanism and:
oh sure! sure!
spectacular fly-over country tourism!
everything's so so different!
and yet all so oh so much the same!

darwinism was going to run the 5000 meter
race... it's currently running the 10000 meter
race... god help it in running the marathon
of still pretending: old news is new news...
i can't distinguish between darwinism
and copernican discovery...
only in the english-speaking world
would this discovery not escape a criticism
from ancient greece and some, some predecesor!

wouldn't anyone just bore of darwinism
if they were told: over and over again:
the copernican "reality"?
a scientific fact is... akin to a religious dogma...
until... it becomes regurgitated with
enough time, with enough journalism and...
tabloid wind... and after a while...
it's only worthwhile to be spoken to
amnesia peoples of the world: unite!
it's hardly "stupid" or "intelligent"...
more or less overlooked...
because a pebble thrown at a mountain:
is... no added mountain to behold...
conventional wisdom is the only wisdom
that there ever was made to be made:
available...

nonetheless, the circumstance stands...
unless from the slavic hemisphere
of europe...
unlike any other circumstance: other than
the one given, among islanders...
among continent builders akin
to australia and h'america...
the post-racial societies of post-colonial
spain in south america?
ever wonder why the brazillians don't
look for inspiration from the portugese
when it comes to football?
you'd think: those yanks better have
the best football team in the world...
they haven't exactly looked back...
back at "us": oh god... tea afternoon and cricket...
baseball wha'?
basketball? "football"?
why are "we" looking forward and "they're"
looking back?
perhaps i should learn some spanish and
get some insinuation about:
the argentinian sense of lack when looking
back into spain...

or what else is there to be had?
move to Greenland... admire Denmark...
**** it: do the whole stretch and find
some locals on the Faroe Islands...
perhaps i too will find a tomorrow...
but tomorrow i will find: sobering up
and having to deal with: everything beside jazz...

mmm... "delayed gratification" prospects...
seven kings: canon palmer catholic school...
when boys are educated alongside girls...
what if i went to Ilford County High?
what if i were born to immigrant parents
and wasn't an 8 year old immigrant?
what if i went to the Ilford Ursulines?
the all-girls school... the former, Ilford County High?
what chances of me being an intellectual
******?

what, oh the chances!
perhaps praying: segregated... is a tad extreme?
but perhaps ******-exclusion policies:
teaching boys throughout their puberty
as segregated from girls in the same hormonal
development "range" is...
well! how else! you take a boy and girl
and you put them into the hormonal cocktail!
just because it's in a shared educational
environment... why these teenage pregnacies
you ask?
i wouldn't ask such blunt questions...
not since the genius of Copernicus
couldn't attract these...
psychological left-over intelligenstia clingers...
that darwinism has allowed...
what it darwinism and journalism?
everything! the ant as the ego
inside the mind of an ape...
the dormant tapeworm embryo
inside the mind of an ant:
with siesmic consequence of a disturbance
of the collective hive network...

borrow too much from an ape...
borrowing from an ape is one thing...
it's the borrowing from all other
animals: with the ape as the backdrop
that's truly bothersome!
at least religious spew the same facts
over and over again...
scientific dogma? who keeps track?
tomorrow might be the next:
butter vs. margarine controversy!
what sort of "religion" is science
(it's not a religion... if it's not...
why does it have to cohabit a bed
with journalism then, to spew "new",
"improved" facts, then?!)
when... it's so ******* finicky!

look via the ape long enough:
it won't matter whether it's a geocentric
of a heliocentric system that
reigns above your head, no torso,
a pickled spine...
legs and arms floating about like:
an octopus experiencing spasms
pickled in brine...

perhaps these are the zenith years of
darwinistic popularity...
perhaps like the copernican popularity...
there will come a time of:
fatalism... that somehow all of this
is... inevitable...

i see one answer: this cage of grammar
this cage of whatever this god made human
pressures me into complying to...
to the last typo! i will stand against it!
without caging me into a use of emoji or
some other hieroglyphic purse of:
shortened "thinking"...

the "seven silences" might have passed
around my presence that i dare not
call it: in concrete - figure...
and still my eigth silence to unmask
nothing more than a mask...

who are these immigrants, these tight brewed
broods, these furrow brows
representing the native pensive "squint":
of anything beside the eyes and a thought
of h. p. lovecraft?
perhaps inside of europe:
but as ever... without a russian passport...
without a russophobia that's
a tickling hard-on... the "in-between-land"...
perhaps the balkans...
who are we... to these germans and quasi-germans?

we use their tongue, their zunge...
their everything they will otherwise allow themselves
to deny: perhaps this is not Dublin,
this is not Glasgow this is not Cardiff...
perhaps this is not Italy,
this is not France...
perhaps this is "europe" as long as
Scandinavia is involved...

woe a we unto us: the viking Rus...
or some lent word of lost vogue...
last time i heard:
these northern ******* are in no favour
of treating the Spaniards or the Greeks
as their equals...
as long as they have rich arab pimps
race their lamborghini brute ******
down... knightsbridge...

then! and only then! iz ist europa "reconquista"!
"reconquista"... i'll defend these poor polacks
that didn't think it...
"necessary" to only learn english in order
to comply to the global dictum of neu-communist
internationalism...
- what, they didn't teach you you stupid
**** that it only took to learn from english?!
- last time i heard... not teachings polish
to a canape of anything beside the french,
the spanish... also worked!

english as a language is oh so accomodating...
the people will react like antibiotics,
naturally... enough of darwinism and you'll
be found, bound, to having to reference it...
past a de facto menu:
and more like a subjectivity...
there's only so much truth that can be stated...
before fiction has to reply...
because... how many regurgitated facts
can be regurgitated...
before the desert of fiction and...
there's only the fact of a bottle of water...
that remains...
and there's not impetus to walk toward
an oasis...
a fata morgana is hardly a scientific experience...
when experienced...
it's something associated with
a desert and within the desert must either:
live... or die...

what if etymology was to become the new
standard for journalism...
what if one were to escape this contant
bombardment of darwinism...
like it wasn't the next new vogue akin
to the copernican "revolution"?

is that even possible?
whenever i return to Poland...
esp. in Warsaw... i'm a deserter...
i'm not an expatriate...
the native english call those who left
with a sense of longing...
somehow: or at least that's the leftover...
the expatriates from the inside-out
perspective... never the immigrants...

i'm an immigrant and...
a paper citizenship is: no citizenship at all...
a passport is only worth a passport
at a border crossing...
in between the everyday daily affairs?
'where are you from?'
****... 'Bristol?!'...
i'm hardly going to speak
the cockney cockers or an essex schlang...
am i? ***!
all but ******* plumbers and church pulpit
mongers... and some over-ripe
riddle fruits: if not simply left
bottles of wine for the bears...

the first part though, bothers me...

someone once said: only the natives can be designated
free speech...
the immigrants can have their dog
and let it bark, along with whatever thinking comes
their way... in mere thinking...
and a dog barking...

the natives will only have a freedom of speech...
what if an immigrant becomes a citizen?
just asking...
what if an immigrant is granted a citizen
status?
well then... i am your humble example
of a civic nationalist...
such a confusing term...
it must be: for the natives...

oh ****... what language am i using?
the language of the... natives!
rubric civitas!
civic nationalism is reserved for:
those that came from abroad...
i guess the ethno-nationalists never made
this distinction clear:
watching their contemporaries leave their
native pit of woe...
and they would never call them:
deserters... only... only... expatriates...
after all... aren't we in the postmortem of ancient Rome?!
isn't this the time when the remnant
english come out and glorify being
the conquered people of this: lettering?

what is civic nationalism?
what is learnt, integrated nationalism...
this is civic nationalism...
how about the english forget about something,
like solving crosswords...
esp. among the middle-classes...
and let's envision their globalist dream!
let them learn a second language
and let us all become bilingual!
oh no... not polyglots... just bilingual!

i can't be an ethno-nationalist...
em... because (a) (b) and (c)?
aren't the post-colonial commonwealth
remnants of the empire the sort
civic-nationalists there's talk of?
what language am i writing in?
hebrew?! mandarin?!

ethno-natioanlism and its tribalism...
civic-nationalism and its state...
where does the church fit into all of this?
it's like not being an amuptee but
nonetheless being prescribed a "missing limb"...
the **** would i need a third arm for?
wilt the third leg allow me to run faster?!

i guess the term ethno-nationalist is
conflated with civic-nationalist in the ethno-nationalist
realm of "debate"...
a civic-nationalist is your casual parlance
h'american patriot...
patriotism in h'america: nationalism (still)...
in europe...
if we have to: hello, my name is: bob
do it all over again with the squares
and dictum assertions and what not attached...
between the ethno-nationalists and
the civic-nationalists...
the inter-nationalists...

i'm a civic-nationalist because:
i fear people need concrete examples...
i will not move back to Poland...
except on the holidays...
to visit my grandparents...
which is why i have retained the labour
of a native tongue... and "identity"...
i will remain in England...
until England becomes: Alle-Land...
and even when all these
ethno-nationalists ******* to Australia...
and become civic-nationalists over there...
well: over there good luck!

why would anyone ask an ethno-nationalist
the question: are you a civic-nationalist or?
civic- implies:
i'm a Brit from a grand "beyond":
circa 3000km away...
civic is a bewildering prefix for the nationalist
of a ethno- persuasion...
it really is... esp. when this ethno-nationalist
doesn't believe in the existence of
expatriates... that he would remain... "stuck"...
and that somehow... ethno-kin could come
and replace... those kin that left: "in good faith"...

savvy?!

.does the concept of a misnomer, exist, within the confines of synonyms?

                       poets began complaining:
if we're not rewriting
         the brother grimms'
fairy tales...
   we're writing: about reading...
so what the hell
is up with the modern revamping
of journalism?
  journalism about...
journalism?
   and this legalißation of
homosexuality...
and the standardißing of
of transgenderißm?
i'm living inside a society,
that has abolished the concept
of the asylum...
      and i'm like:
oi! garçon! noch eine tee
   für mich...
             an dis verrückt
                  engländerteeparty!
- since writing about reading
is the consequence of
a landfill site ergonomics...
what is alt and Samson
journalism?
            oh look... another set
of people, who've entered
a problematic posit of plagiarism,
having to wrestle with,
yet another cul de sac scenario...
the nuestasi...
      i agree, there's a healthy
canvas of competition...
but... after a while?
  it's basically people slagging
each other off...
    journalists "doing" journalism
for the front-liners -
journalism as simply
     the editorial sections
of newspapers...
     opinion avenues, rubrics...
there's no longer a journalism
within the regards of:
what's happening in the world...
but...
  there's a journalism,
within the confines of:
what's happening in journalism...
the day had to come,
when the times newspaper...
had to run a page 2 story...
about a Toff Tinder dating app.,
about pseudo-eugenics -
minus the strict Nazis,
and more:
   those annoying English
aristocrats,
   who received, much more
than a circumcision when
     ruling over the Indian Raj...
mind you... it always bewildered
me...
   most european languages...
do not actually allow noun ascription
to letters...
   like the greeks might with
O being omicron,
   or A being alpha...
    hence me, among the "losers"...
well... because i have
a roof over my head,
and there actually exists a class
of employed
people in england,
that are, nonetheless, homeless!
    the latin alphabet,
with its Ah Be(e) Ce(e)...
                      ****...
just before they cut his ***** off,
the castrato at the Vatican: sang!
sang! ****** sang like a
Modena tenor... having his *****
squeezed, before having them cut off...
sung the alphabet...
   and... couldn't fathom
ascribing a noun... to a single letter
in the encoding metric...
            no surprises...
but it's not like tyrants didn't
need eunuchs to keep harems...
back when the plastic industry
wasn't in full swing...
   and you wanted to keep 200 women...
you basically needed walking ******
to keep the women occupied...
     so... a walrus bollocking
within the grasp of a, "sudden"
loss of stamina?
                 evolved...
like a tree made into a toothpick...
because... only some make
it into the kingdom of god,
imitating the monogamy of
the nobles, that are... notably swans...
the concept of
     widowhood exists among
swans...
                 sometimes...
among people...
        but hell...
                      this Bulgarian
******* asked me:
do you have a girlfriend?
   nope.
              - and the "affair" was over
within the confines of an hour...
the same emotional investment
as one might take...
   in killing a mosquito -
   omni corpus - nulla cor vel mens...
was that said, plaintively?
not really...
              no bogus drama -
   the sheep was still intact,
when the wolf left, satiated.

.h'america.... the last theological playground of... whatever the mind left behind in the decrepit bulwark that's europe... oh... and those mid-western died-hard hitchcock platinum-blondes in a-waiting... my typo pristine dutch-girls-go-to-church mantra... otherwise? no b'ooh'y'ah! chugger-chugger-chugger-chuck-cherry-choppy-chops-you-*******-cuc­­k-chuckie! quasi-whitman wannabe... billy was a butcher... a thematic long lost gun... billy was a butcher... and all the ripe choppers of pork... gave us a belief in snow; and what some heaved with a falling-of-a-star of dis-.belief: i too was bound to glorification of: what was expected to be known! and the subsequent: wow! i have met only the most limited of men... i have therefore met all men... the "all" men of this rubric of a year, a decade... all that's bygone of a yawn; swear it sn't so! a so! that's not be be sown! i am here too: upon the whim of expectation... merely... waiting... a man comes to be born come his 30s... his 40s? his nostalgia "moment"... former known name of: Jack Lil Lick 'Em Boots... and the crescendo of pauper's black lining of the Wall St. "better oiled"... scalp the ******! and send him unto the rabbi's true blessing... in the cusp of the scalp of the kippah!  and now... you take... your anglo-spreschen-tangle... into the salt-wounds of your h'america! first born: young... i don't like your revision... looking toward Europe with a hope for a sensibility... this pseudo deutsche: pseudo dutch, anglo-; this is no loss of the French or the Slav! this is our celebration! does one have an irish phrasing in uns to be at in it or one? beyond this grip boyo bound glue? this clerical spare of the otherwise leftover skivvy? we have made barons of these minutes.... as if we were to be kings of the coming years... and how we didn't become gods of the atoms... and the men of the suns and planets... that is our... most worthwhile conundrum in a da pacem domine bound; you're going to Beirut on me... or something?!

in my haitus away from this canvas:
naive me thought: perhaps a surge...
again proven wrong -
albeit not disappointed -
so i had to look elsewhere -

i had to look for a clarity of diction...
i had to move away from
the western lands and their:
death of god and their death by metaphysics...

even in this barren english...
i could not figure out:
why are these people,
apologetics from the central leftists...
these liberals...
ditto: i will butcher this name...
i will butcher the pronunciation
of this word...

if there are "questions" regarding
what's being phonetically encoded...
so much for me "learning to code"...
i too once wrote a html encoding...
with all the < and < and > toys...
spacing... {[( gradations... etc.,

i had to look east, after a while writing
schlechtdeutschegrammatik...
bad german grammar...
again: it's posthumous "Latin"...
it might be...
bad grammar german...
or german bad grammar...
deutscheschlechtgrammatik...

spelling is the mathematical equivalent
of... arithmetic...
but grammar? you need a ping-pong
table...
you need something cymru-esque...
a scandinavian-esque bilingual cushioning...

english alone will not solve the matter...
it's not french, it's not german,
it's certainly not spanish...
spanish and how post-colonialism was
settled with a post-racial attitudes of
Brazil...
england has taken too much time
looking up and out of the h'american
*******...
no grand satan 'ere...
no silk road bazar of fruits exotica from...
Teheran...
something more... subtle...

i had to go back to the "tsar"...
and the цэркйэв: 'cerkiew'...
and there i was amused how...
well apparently...
there are a lot of words
that do use the sz'cz...
enough... to deviate from
the Latin bollocking represented via
шч = щ....

that's perfectly logical...
i'm done with "perfectly logical"
if it exists outside of the realm of
orthography...

szczypta soli - pinch of salt...
in russian...
щ... that's a bit of a "question"...
yes, yes it is complicated...

szczery / szczera (he's honest /
she's honest)...
szczerość (honesty)...

no it's not... you german fickle-wit!
you forget the ы!

ah! well then... щыптa....
**** me... disorientating...
they could do all that with greek and glagolitic...
but they still had to keep...
latin: roman: holy roman empire: GERMAN...
lowercase lettering...
akin to a... e... c doesn't count...
since that's a greek cedilla "missing"...
ç... or... sigma... ς -
otherwise known in english as that S
after the apostrophe...
when something is called being:
the possessive article...
a (indefinite) the (definite) - some -ism to mind?!
no... but 's is... a bit like the SS...
in greek...
all in lower case: stephen's and...
στεφηνς...
σtephenς: that very much desired: ha!
ridiculous gag... the "much desired"
alternative to an apostrophe S ('s)...

it's Stephen's! it's Stephen's!
it's Sylvester's!
three articles in english:
the indefinite article (a)...
the definite article (the)...
and the possessive article ('s) - apostrophe S...
eS eS!

russian accents...
ъ, ы, ь...

but i only know of one "hard sign" example...
and that disqualifies the J ever needing a lower-case
"dot"... ȷ... namely... зъ: ż... alternatively
also: rz... and ж...
żuk! beetle! somehow the caron makes it...

szczyt! zenith!
щыт!

- and since i'm no longer writing:
i'd be writing if i were monolingual...
or... if i was animated by
the sort of Knausgardian bilingualism
of chop of swede: marker norgie...
but... i'm painting...

i forgot how to write when i could
see "synonyms" of sounds...
entombed in two different phonetic
encodings, namely elevated latin
and "pan-greek": cyrillic...

the variations between:

й and ы...
i.e. via е - "ye"
ё - "yo" (there's an umlaut in russian?!)
"у" - yew and you...
the gamma subscript...
ю - "yu"...
and... я - "ya"...

with regards to this rubric...
i am in the middle...
i can see a distinction between
a "y" (whine why and no I)...
hardly a jotted anecdote...
and yes... the closest the russians
ever come to Cracow is with ы
to a western slavic y...
ask me: toй - ask me: toȷ...
who needs a dot above the J
in the lower-case... if...
if... there's no absolute need for it to
be there: unlike some greenwich mean time
focus?
it ȷust so happens that...
the better clasp of the equator is
married to Greenwich: London...

dr. who time lords:
bellybuttons of the world: the english are...
again: i have to remind myself...
ı am not wrıtıng... ı am... paıntıng...

1(one), l(el)... I and ı(ıota)...
i guess an apostrophe would suffice...
ıf it's not an "ı"...
ı'ota... ı: oath...
sure as fıgurative "****" it's not...

ı must wrıte some more examples
in russıan...
to get me off me mark into
some "wax lyrıcal"...
ıslander mentalıty of the hen'glısch...

see how "the dot" can appear...
and disappear, as one see fıt?
and ıt makes: no little bıt of...
"dıfference"?!

i need to sleep on thıs "exercise"...
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold...

w­­ıll eyes gets it?
hardly...

the rest of these cosmopolitan *******
focused on gwaffiti awt...
which is welsh for: GRA GRA...
when was the last time you heard
an englishman trill an R?
ı can't remember...
give me a night to soak up the pickling
juıces... i can't remember the last time
i heard an homest trIll eıther!
pauper me...

it's probably because of the welsh:
GWA GWA! gwadleıth cowonew...
or coroner row row row a rombat into a rue:
or a woo...
rhyme: contorts...
shapes and disappearing: oopses...
a whole multıtude of 'em...
come like the tıde...
leave... lıke a tilde... quası N:
it's a... H is a zeus...
and J is a Ha Ha Ha wrap-up rap of
laughter: in spanısh: of course...

i don't wrıte... ı paint...

impromptu interludes, quickened:
i'm a marriage of two continents...
and one island...
east of moscow...
asia... west of warsaw and...
these gloomy island pits of
idiosyncracy... never quiet the icelandic
answer to norway...
or greenland's answer to denmark...
but an island... nonetheless...

- to hell witth cascading linear cascades
of narrative: i'm blind to the optics
of "the narrative" in the paragraph
format...

i will look back east...
i will look at the russian script...
i will look at it as a time in ******
history equivalent to:
why didn't you just think of it as Greek?
but "my people" didn't...
and i'm not exactly a "why / didn't"...
i'm part of the excavation machinery...
i come with what was served...
i will leave without
leverage...

and here is the russian icon translated
from the Babel...
the following are orthodox letters
shared by one and all
to the western lands...

а б в г д e з и й
к л м н o п р c т
у ф

a b v g d e z i j
k l m n o p r s t u
f

now we leave: łen łill that be?
we should all somehow know...
to łork out a When a Where
(notably with the "h" being but a surd)...

mother how should i further this?
herbata
hasło (ha-s-woe)
hołd (**-**-w'd)

to no other: otherwise only in scotland:
the loch of tipsy work...
albeit: orthographic distinction...
хęć - a whim a desire...
a loch is no: cheat of a lake...
latching onto the otherwise boredom caron
exposed...

дух (ghost) with a душa (soul)...

else there's c dissociated from the s...
and more so with a kappa kaput...
the drumstick slick on a wet snare of: tss...
ц - almost...
then morphing into a ць -
yet in my version: no so silent...
ćma: moth...
цmokaць / cmokać: to click with the tongue...
to kiss smackingly -
to ingest food via a smoczek...
a smoчek - a smoček... the baby soother...

this is my third day having to return to
this canvas...

first thing's first:
palatization (palatißation)
is not... a name of german crusader song:
palästinalied...

this is one of the main reasons why
i can't imagine myself as being able:
to write a novel -
i can't bear this birth of words into
this pseudo-Kandinsky -
it would be much easier with painting
something for a year -
than writing for a year -
the same thing, over and over again...

if i write a "poem" or, rather, a poo'em...
i expect the concept of
ensō: a circle has to be drawn with
a single uninhibited stroke...
when the body is set free and the body
merely complies...

comparison... if one were to draw
a most pristine ensō...
one would never achieve an ouroboros
depiction... it's quiet impossible
to use one volume of ink
attached to a stroke to complete
a circle... let alone a depiction
of an ouroboros...
what starts off as concrete soon...
fades away... thins out...
until there is so little ink left
on the brush that individual hairs
of the brush start appearing...

a pristine depiction of life...
but never the hardline ouroboros
depiction: this cerberus of reincarnation:
i never would have believed in it -
given that: there would have to be
a limited number of souls...
the thought that i might be introspective
enough as to be one of these: "elites"...
and the rest... were "n.p.c." drones...
zombie-esque drifters...
that had no psychological infrastructure
to have memory and rubric of learning
bound to them to be: invested in?

i am still going to write this Kandinsky...
one way or another...
but i can say only that:
i can imagine myself returning
to a painting - and painting it for a year...
but a book?
if a poem can't be written in one sitting...
it's not a poem...
this is not a poem: this is a novel
equivalent...
the best to my ability: which is none...

all i will ever manage with this
is a pedantic scrutiny of russian orthography,
how i don't follow metaphysical arguments
of the germans, the english or the french,
because i don't dream that often,
and when i do dream?
i dream up nonsense...
last time i dreamed that a hiena was
biting at my arm like a corn-cob...
but it wasn't biting to draw blood...
it was biting and cackling in order
to tattoo me... it bit into my arm and detailed
indentations akin to braille...
a pianola roll...

and that's the only details of the dream
i can remember...
perhaps i strained memory...
perhaps people who dream...
are fond of forgetting...
perhaps i don't dream because i can
remember being 4...
a shadow (my maternal great-grandfather)...
a large piano, a small piano...
he worked a retirement as a security guard
in a kindergarten...
i once spent an afternoon with him...
i have seen pictures of him...
but i don't remember the face in the photographs...
he sat me before a bonsai piano
while he sat at the large piano...
and i guess: we were going to be the new
Chopins or something...
he's still a shadow... a grey form...
perhaps a extract of memory that reaches
back 29 years is the reason why i don't
dream... then again...

what if i were to have recurrent dreams?
i've heard people have recurrent dreams...
i just have details of dreams...
i'm not complaining but...
it has become exhausting to simply sleep sometimes...
to replay that lullaby of the void...
yes: yes... i will return to russian orthography:
give me a moment!

well, on my "haitus" i had to look beyond
"conventionality"...
there was a period where i found
the glagolitic script - i said to myself:
there must be an equivalent alphabet to match
the runes...

there must have been a way to encode
without the romans and greeks...
after all... there is the St. Cyrill alphabet
and that of Methodus...
how many ethnic groups are there
on this old, yawning continent -
minor point: old age is not plagued by
yawning - only youth yawns...
old age is cured of yawning -
hanging over them the yawning death...
when father - when father - will this old
ponce come into my *****?

glagolitic and cyrillic?
well Ⰱ Б...
Ⱂ and P... which is not exactly lent-greek...
i guess it's only "wise"
to go back into the modern scribbles...

there are so many branches
to be plucked off a pine
to reserve yourself with ending up
to owning a pike...
so what would it help me:
if i had to reverse and ezra pound
my way forward...
bubble bulging roma notations?
i see: when that chisel in marble
V is not supposed to be a U...

EVROPA... etc.

i need to bring to the fore my own
distinctions...
spread: universally within the confines
of the people that speak it:
i even had to made balkan additions...
like the caron S and caron C...
to hide the english gimmick
of SHarp and CHeat...
evidently we use the Z to replace
the H when stressing our "demands"...
Šarp and Čeat...

so back into russian?
i almost forgot that i said...
their orthography is not worth the dog's
bollocking of a lick...

i was wrong, obviously...
but even the russians are supposed
to be allowed their idiosyncracy -
their orthographic pedantry...
russian orthographic pedantry?
ah...

when е met э...
was also the time when э didn't meet з...
this is pedantic...
another russian pedantic "detail"...
how many Y's or J's do you need...
to detail: the elongated-iota?
before... "****" becomes confusing...
within the confines of gamma...

i'm pretty sure the russians have
fixated their attention on the Y/J "debate"
working from their central premise of
the english AYE... I... the pronoun bunker...
der deutsche affirmative: ja!
yah in the hebrew respective for: wisdom...

let's see... i'm pretty sure the russians
have all the vowels bow to this mecca
of Moscow, cite me: and please reiterate...
that i use J and Y interchangeably...
i don't imply: to jot - to "dz"ot...
or Joseph in Ypres...

otherwise: a yeti climbing a yew shouting: yes!
it's not exactly jargon -
but... a prefix y- in english...
is not a suffix -y in english...
which just... "out of the blue"...
demands to be associated with the iota
of: ply... and yet: it's no i.e. e'et...
it's neither ate or the fwench and (et)...
it's a yeti... but not a jetty!

never mind... back into the fussy russian...
i'm pretty sure you will find all
of the pentagram (vowels) bowing before
the altar of pseudo-gamma:

                                     ю (yu)
                                    /
(details in) й ------ я (ya) -- ы (oh look, solo!)
   the above"rant")  |
                                  у (which is a u)
                                /   \
                     e (ye)       ё (yo)

almost... but i'm far from learning russian...
i find these orthographic details...
coexisting...

зъ = ж = ż = rz = ř / ž...

eastern, mother slavic...
beginning with a western slavic translation
"innovation"...
central / western slavic...
balkan slavic...
oh we are such famous clarinet players!
because what happens
when the caron is sliced into two...
and an acute ****** pops out?!

hence the зъ beginning...
yes... it's not "silent"... it's simply not
palatalißed... the tongue doesn't tip-off
the palette... the sound escapes via
the gritting of teeth...
with it: the tongue can rattle and a trill
R is heard...

зъ (ż) contra зь (ź) -
życzenia - well wishes| źródło - source...
now to only write these words
in russia - without knowing the russian
noun-denotations...
for orthographic purposes...

жыченя... or is it... жычениa?
зьруд... problem... can't find the english
W in russian... or the ****** Ł...
there's the english V... the ****** W...
but russian doesn't translate (Вв)
so vell into wery: not so weary but
nonetheless very not so, so...

my problem is not about that though...
this poem this poo'em this:
a pigeon drops a zeppelin-****
on your top-hat implies good luck...
no 13's or black cats crossing your path either...
i could most honestly spend
100 years of each of the 100 individuals
bound to the salt mines in the vicinity
of Beijing... and i would still find myself...
without tears...
because this is the most inexhaustible
crux: it's really bugging me foundation stone...

i won't even mind the modern greeks
at this point... they do use diacritical markers
too... but over-do it... as if compensating
or trying to compete on level par
with their metaphysical dittos...

чaхa: czacha... almost slang term for:
czaszka... чaкшa...
and this is by no means "smart"...
i can't solve crosswords puzzles...
well i can: but i need to find myself
in the company of my grandmother...
in the morning...
i would have had to drooled over some novel
from 7am until she gets out of bed
come 9am... we'd drink coffee and i'd
smoke cigarettes...
and it would be a month prior to christmas
or easter, or the interlude...
and... i'd be freed from writing or
reading anything in english...
either me looking at diacritical distinctions
in the realm of orthography between:
russian, ******, balkan...
or... me never learning french,
or attempting to: ever, again!

******* suffix-eaters...
dyslexics in reverse...
say one thing: write another thing...
this is probably born from my frustration
at being unable to learn french...
perhaps after having acquired english
i was given german to learn...
but no... first hurdle... french...
flop!
now it's a diet of no crosswords...
some sudoku from time to time...
and my new hobby after having found
"too many" googlewhacks...

so there's nothing smart about this:
this is in no way useful to anyone -
being the sort of person
to "mind" whenever one's being asked
to spell their surname...
it's hardly that difficult but...

would i go for the echo sierra charlie
hotel lima echo romeo tango...
or go out full greek with it?
perhaps the greek...
since that would solve the problem
i've had for a while,
concerning the eta / epsilon "debate"...

how does a greek laugh -
what is the crux letter via which
a greek laughs?
you see a H shape on the horizon...
but you... hear the noun: eta...
you later see the name eta...
but that's eta: without an apostrophe...
the apostrophe 'eta being the "surd" H...

in greek then...
epsilon sigma... **** it... there's no "sch"
of a german worth in greek...
let's cut it out:
epsilon lambda epsilon rho tau...

otherwise in russian...
once more:

ś(lub) - wedding - сь(люб)
"soft" sign - ' - apostrophe -
or ACUTE elsewhere...
why not сьлуб?
i don't know... it's not like сь is even
minded in russian...

ah! my favorite!
goń! gonitwa: a race -
the verb impetus: race! chase after!
гoнь!

since ы is the "odd" one out between
the application of "ь" and
and "ъ"...
come to think of it...
ы gave birth to: ю (yu), я (ya),
у (u), й ("y"), и ("e")...
i... i.e. and... in ******...
akin to those languages that use e...
to also imply and...
ё (yo)... how did i miss the umlaut
infiltrating the russian 'bet...
i blame catherine the great!
and... е (ye)...
is that the pentragram?
u, a, e, i, o... yes! we have it!

i truly had better days when sudoku was
the better puzzle to fill a day with...
not this... from glagolitic, to greek,
to roman, to post-roman to russian
and back into...

if we are all "supposedly" literate...
begs the question why: why oh why the emoji...
the *******-wanking hieroglyphics...
the :) and what not...
i guess to better escape this sort of
headaches... minor chances of everyone
becoming a bilingual:
but what's there to brag about
being bilingual!
i guess the polyglots do not have such
headaches of detail...
they just... bypass these rules and regulations...

to better guide me:
if i managed to sift through james joyce's
finnegans wake... and didn't find any
diacritical markers in it?
can't i compensate?
i'm compensating right now!
if the 2010s as a decade was a decade
filled with... sisyphus titans akin
to kant, hiedegger, kierkegaard,
knausga(a)rd, joyce...
beckett - yes...
again that hollowed "y" distinction!
it's not a sisi: yes yes problem...
hardly me being ***** either...
e'ver... i'ver...
ain't that a *****...

clarity of diction... the best motto there is...
crab-bucket-intellectualism:
alternatively the focus away from
any ontological stressors of "example" -
ontological and its variant of
a priori:
perhaps, given that the ontological
is an a priori argument...
here's my crossword puzzle -
ref. thesaurus rex...

and by no means... at all...
etymology is the better variant of any known
history...
when this bundle of words:
that an ontological dialectic can be achieved:
that ontology can be given within
as much as an a priori: bigot! focus...
with as much as an a posteriori:
wizened unicorn quid pro quo tanz!

hamsterwheel loopholes or:
crab-bucket intellectualism...

now: i really could have put these words
to better use... to make them linear...
less cryptic... but how can i?
i'm solving a crossword puzzle in reverse!
i don't expect the easily scared moths
to entertain this fire...

i expect midgets to be dancing...
before my eyes...
whenever i listen to
faun's tanz mit mir
or in extremo's rotes haar...
when the bagpipes and the flutes
kick in...

- since if i were to write a coherent sentence:
succumb to a linear narrative...
i'd people reading this to be also found:
easily talking about it...
perhaps i don't enjoy freedom of speech
as much as i enjoy the freedom to think...
perhaps i haven't written anything
worth speaking about, regurgitating,
making vogue, working for some intellectual
period-piece of "vogue"...
perhaps this is a shared problem,
hidden in a cipher...
of: how i can't heave this tool...
this tapeworm of existence,
this medium of god...
to later trash it, to have nothing better
to do with it other than play-games...
worded games... crossword puzzles...
perhaps i need a crossword puzzle to imply:
neighbour's share some words...
together... but then write them differently...
perhaps i require a crossword puzzle...
to read into some russian...
on the praxis base of english...
flying past Warsaw toward the itch
of the edge of Asia...
breathe the air - the heart of the continent...

perhaps i would have never managed
to escape this world if i ingested
mind-benders of the h'american 1960s
revolutionary schematics of the:
new-humanists... crash course in literature:
only one magic mushroom trip away!

фoрк ин дэ рoaд (fork in the road)

ИN...

some shared words, of etymological
curiosity...

(fork) вилка - wilka -
polish? wilka? that which belongs to
a wolf... widelec...
видэлэц...

(knife) нож - nóż -
well... orthography comes into play...
while people can have their...
ahem... in-the-meantime metaphysical
playground...
the ground, the word,
the geology is already here...
written alternatively?
нузъ...

i take a different stance to the common day
****** back east...
when russia starts slagging you off...
you put on a Boris Yeltsin mask on
and dance the drunk panda dance...

(spoon) ложка - łyżka -
in polish? ah those russians... ло ло...
лож: lorz...
lo lo and behold the translated
quasi-russian into the borders of europe...
ł.w.(ызъка)...

black and white (черный и белый):

czarny i biały: rho-si-ye!
char-nee-ye! bel'ye)...

perhaps the timing is a bit off:
the proper wording would be:

czarno na białym -
not: in black and white...
чaрнo на биa-wh-ым...

knocked-out to be honest...
the russians use ый like that?
YJ? oh right! i use it too!
in the prompt:

tyj! tyj ty grubasie!
hmm... -asie...
it would do me a lot of good...
if that iota didn't have a decapitated
head of a halo hovering above it...
why? so i could introduce the acute
slant over the S and surd it...
i.e. -aśιe...

тый! ты груб... exactly...
grub-               -aсьие
тый! ты грубaсьие!
to grow fat: тый!
              "problem": -aśιe vs. -aсьие...
well... it's there: сь...
but it also isn't there: и...

but it isn't: but it also isn't...
i just managed to find out that...
in warsaw (if i lived in warsaw)...
we have that conjunction: -ый-
however rare it is: it is there...

any more delegations from Moscow?
tyj! tyj ty grubasie!  
and i will write these last few words
and know why i don't really feel like
solving crosswords puzzles...
or doing those i.q. schematic tests...

**** it... the welsh should know and help me
out... concerning?
how it's YN and not IN...
how it's Y and not I when referring to THE gwyll:
dusk...
y gwyll o hywels: the dusk of powells...
only the welsh would know my "pain"...
yn y gwyll o y hywels:
in the dusk of the powells...

taking a step back - a step back...
yes yes, apologies... if my punctuation...
is too much of a ******* arithmetic!
too bad!

p.s. and yes... don't leave anything lying
around in the drafts or as private...
chances are... with a 2 day delay...
this will never be fed into the LATEST feed.

Nag, nagging,
Finger wagging,
Shoulders sagging,
Victim slagging.

Oh beration,
Flagellation,
Irritating
Castigation.

Cutting hemlock,
On her chopping block,
Innuendoes
Spawning ad hoc.

Super-intending,
Condescending,
Never ending,
Insult fending.

Pointless rounds
Of empty double-talk,
Wife, your name is
Self-styled wise hawk.

So many, many moons ago
The gang from St. Brigid's would go
Every single chance we could
Off to local farms to sow spuds.

Each one covered in burning lime
(No health and safety at the time)
Each sown under a foot apart;
If not, you went back to the start.

All for only ten pence a line
(Though 'twas a fortune at the time)
Working mostly long ten hour days;
Kids would not do it nowadays!

Picnic lunches in all weathers,
Sitting in the fields together,
Lemonade bottles for the tea,
Eating with hands filthy *****.

It was work that would break your back
But sure we all had mighty craic,
Laughing and joking all day through,
Slagging each other as kids do!

St. Brigid's gang were number one,
Farmers knew the work would be done.
At harvest time back we would drag
To pick spuds for ten pence a bag!

It did none of us any harm
Working such long hours on the farm.
Although the work was onerous
'Twas the making of all of us!

I really feel *****, I hope there's something **** in the park
Under the moonlight, some loose women lurking in the dark
You see a car, there's a few people trying to make it
They try to squeeze, one by one right between her thighs
****** surprise

'Cause this thrilling, thrilling night
And no ones gonna stop me from ******* a good **** tonight
You know its thrilling, thrilling night
Your waiting for your turn inside a, slushy, ***** tonight, yeah

You hear a **** squelch, and realise
That someone's up her ***
You get your **** hard, and wonder if your ever getting some
You try to move, and hope that this is good fornication
And all the while, there's a fellow up her nice behind
Your watching him grind

'Cause this is thrilling, thrilling night
There's always second chances ******* the **** who's had forty *****.
(Thrilling, thrilling night)
Your still waiting for your turn inside a, cushy, ***** tonight

Nice features temp you, her **** on show and wet slits on parade
There's no escaping the jaws of her used **** this time.
(It's open wide)
This is the time for your ride

Your in her hot ****, you've finally got your ridged **** inside
filled with mens *** making it easier for your **** to slide
Now is the time, for you and I to **** each other together (yeah)
you've been ****** tonight, I don't really mind where other guys have been
I'm just to keen

This is thrilling, thrilling night
Cause I can fill you more than any fool could even if they try
(Thrilling, thrilling night)
So let me ******* right and share a sagging, *******, slagging, tagging, here tonight

'Cause this is thrilling, thrilling night
Girl, I can thrill you more than any fool could even if they try
(Thrilling, thrilling night)
I hope your **** is tight and share a slagging, *******

I hope it's thrilling tonight

Wankers cross the park land
Hoping she will lend a hand
They know she is to ****** good
She's been around the neighbourhood
And whoever she has ******
The blokes ***** she's also ******
And she don't care if the guys smell
She'll **** them and think what the hell

It's gonna be brill tonight
Ooh, baby
I'm gonna drill you tonight
Oh, darling
I'm gonna thrill you tonight
Ooh, baby
I'm gonna spill you tonight
Oh, darling
Thrilling night

The women's legs are in the air
The **** of forty ***** men
And grizzly blokes in her womb
Are plunging in when there is room
And though they like to **** away
There body's start to quiver
Cos none of them can resist
The ***** she'd deliver

Camping out in Craig's garden,
four of us, thirteen or so,
and the daftness has given way
to important, dark-time talk.

Craig alone has a girlfriend, Paula -
he is a pioneer, entitled to ask,
"Fa dae you fancy, then?"
Inevitable question, social minefield

Answer, "No-one!" and you're a ****.
Give the wrong name,
and risk an eternity of slagging.
Tell the truth, and she might find out.

I go first: I have spotted a safe option.
"Ehm, I fancy Paula," I say,
and it's sort of true - she is a girl,
after all.

Chris goes next:
"Aye, I fancy Paula too."
"Me too," says Jimmy,
and we're all agreed.

We all fancy Paula.
We all fancy Craig's girlfriend,
and that's absolutely fine -
Craig seems satisfied.

And since none of us
has ever acted on such feelings:
since emotion does not yet imply intent
since there is no history of conniving,
of manipulating, of pursuit -
we are all safe and happy,
fancying our pal's lass.

Imagine that now.  Down the pub.
Getting on.  Marriages shoogly.
"Aye, I fancy your wife.
In fact, we all do."

Somehow I suspect
it would no longer be
the bonding experience
of that long-gone, pitch-dark night.

So, can you afford this place by yourself.
Yeah, I did the maths.                                                          
­Okay I’ll take the washing machine, you take the couches.  
You kidding, the washing machine was a present, you take the couches.
I know how to work the washing machine.
Well, I know how to work the coffee machine, but I don’t make a song and dance about it.
Was that why you phoned the plumber when it ran out of water.
I didn’t phone him for that, I was getting a quote for something plummery I was thinking of doing.
Plummery, is that computer speak. Which reminds me, laptop, I’ll be taking that.
You’ll have to wait till I put it back together.
What do you mean put it back together, it’s new.
  I know it’s new, now it’s super new, with 12 g installed.
12 g hasn’t been invented yet.
It has now, with my new revolutionary thought processor and rewind imagery camera.
Have you finally gone nuts, you see what I’ve had to put up with the last five years.
Well I can’t tell you what you’ve put up with the last five years, but I can for the last six months.
Okay, you’re beginning to worry me now, what have you done.
I installed a chip in you. Pick a date out in the last six months and I’ll show you what you were doing.
You’re mad, okay December the 11th.
Right, just put that date in, okay let’s view.  You’re having a coffee morning with your sisters
and wait, you’re slagging me off as usual, tut tut.
My god, this is madness, you’ve finally lost it.
Oh you haven’t seen anything yet, lets check out Dec 13th. Oh look, it’s you and the plumber in which seems to be a posh hotel.
So it is, do I look hot or what.
That wasn’t my first thought I must admit, maybe you could explain yourself.
Isn’t it obvious, I mean, you installed the ****** chip, what part don’t you understand.
I don’t understand why you’re with my plumber on the date he promised to install my new revolutionary coffee maker.

Lily Nurmi & Paul Gaffney.

I’m in a house with too many walls/
Stood in breezy corridors/
And its cold and getting colder/
Your whisper seems to float in the air/
Just hung over are heads, waiting to fall/
Like a moth to a flame I’d rather burn for curiosity.

In the night I hear chants that have now become familiar/
Slagging matches get rowdy/
And the crowd they just sing along/
Waiting for a new sun/
Are we ready for new responsibilities?

Take a bow/
Its should have gone long ago/
Its over/
Burn it/
It won’t happen again/
What’s said has now been done.

We've reached the end of year one
and Trump says he's done more
than any other president
from any time before.

So, what are the accomplishments
of Trump and his intrepid crew?
Well, here now is a partial list
of what they did, or tried to do.

They lied about inaugural crowds
and introduced "Alternative Facts",
inspired a worldwide women's march
to protest Trump's disgusting acts.

Hollowed-out the E.P.A.,
deemed climate change a Chinese hoax.
Paris Accord and regulations
gone, in puff of toxic smoke!

Wrecked the State Department and
Muslims, he said, must be banned.
Insulted NATO and U.N.,
brought shame upon his own homeland.

Attacked the mainstream media.
Railed and ranted of "fake news",
unless it came from Fox and Friends
and others spouting all his views.

Gave praise to Russia - Putin too.
Investigations started.
Comey started digging and
was forcibly departed.

Poked and taunted Kim Jong Un.
International drama!
Obsessed with slagging Hillary
and Barack Obama.

Battled healthcare, N.F.L.
and Planned Parenthood.
Tried to ban transgendered troops.
Claimed that coal is good.

Would not condemn the Neo-Nazis
down in Charlottesville.
Filled his swamp with sycophants
up on Capitol Hill.

Puerto Rico half destroyed.
Paper towels he gave.
Huge cuts to the National Parks,
decreasing land to save.

Claimed that Trump saved Christmas and
gave massive tax cut presents
to the corporate oligarchs
with crumbs tossed to the peasants.

Debt ballooning! Conflict looming!
Divisions far and wide!
G.O.P.'s not stopping Trump.
Have they even tried?

Claims to be a stable genius;
A smart and big success!
What legacy will Donald leave?
What awful, dreadful mess?

These were just some accomplishments
of which I have kept score,
but they just scratch the surface.
I could rant for hours more!

But haven't we all had enough
after Trump's first year?
It feels more like twenty!
Let us hope his end is near.

This was my Year One "trumpoem"
that I wrote for you.
Hope I won't have to write another
after year two!

Untamed self control my own worst enemy I can be
I can not be the poison and the remedy
The voices I hear are not in my head
I hear the words as if they’ve been said.
Horrific thoughts I must endure
Collective voices worse than before
The madness escalates, reducing me to an unbalanced state
A break mentally so much others can not relate
Psychotic attack or psychotic illusion
Is it reality or is it a delusion?
Derogatory constant running commentary
Over thinking causing chaos; corrupting my mind
No escape nor shred of peace can I find
The voices I hear don’t stop they don’t give in,
Continuously ranting of dishonourable sin
I attempt to deter from mental confusions
Medically my thoughts are seen as delusions
At the time I'm not convinced I'm deluded
Convinced by distorted reality I've concluded
Distorted assumptions that I have concocted -now real
Escalated with time a darkness clouds how I feel
Negativity takes over positive thoughts
Hearing uttering of endless hurtful talk
Resulting in what I hear as being true
Suspicions conspire then conclusions are drew

Hateful words; closer louder unable to ignore
Detachment from any logical thought
From the derogatory talk I hear is believed
Its how I am seen its how I am perceived
Over thinking causing chaos corrupting my mind
Peace & positivity I can not find
Voices persecuting me to such an extent
Relentless and nasty horrid content….
Like on repeat although the night
I hear them talking but there out of sight
Surely they must tyre of slagging me off
Nasty unimaginative hateful lot

Voices of those that I know and those I am close too;
My mental state decreases concluding its true
Every emotion dark with dread and fear
Panic derived from all that I hear
I cant shut it out all of the time I take it all in
Persecuted of every action I do, I cant win
Unable to recall past psychotic occurrences
No deterrent from the cognitive disturbances

The voices never stop they don’t go away
With given time I’ll believe what they say
Whether it be a regrettable act or gossips fabricated lies
All of my self worth and confidence dies

Auditory hallucinations not willing to stop
All reasoning fact and logic forgot
Blinds my judgement and ability to see
harrowing Paranoia descends to reality
Hearing the conversations and ruthless content
Persecuting me to such an extent
Medically my thoughts are seen as delusions
I attempt to deter from mental confusions

Panic, detached irrational thought assumptions
Loss of control and distraught
When the worst of the worst is easing
Confusion remains
I question was it real or am I insane
I know now what I thought was deluded
I cant believe what I've previously concluded
At the time what I thought was real
Inability to control how I feel
Disbelief descends when delusions ease
relief then comes from what I previously perceived.

Happiness is a temporary gig

Some of you might disagreed

But look at the facts, about happiness

it's as the saying goes: money can't buy happiness.  

I have come to the conclusion, to enjoy one's happiness,

you have to create your own happiness,  

But first look within, and be honest

Who really make you happy

Who is responsible for your happiness?  YOU!

Not your children, your husband, your coworkers,

Not even your pastor, but You..

So, if you want to maintain happiness in your life
always put yourself first,

I saw this quote and I immediately adopted it



See the positives in things rather than the negatives. Don’t open conversations with people about other people. Slagging people off or negativity just comes back through Karma. So be kind to others, we never know why people react sometimes the way they do, but most people do not purposely mean to be rude or unkind, it is just quite often they are under certain stresses and strains. So try to be understanding and see why they are acting that way rather than judging them Quote......

If happiness was mixed with coke a cola.
imagine, how many of us will be smiling..






































.

Some half baked dubious ******* that I wrote on a train headed in the direction of Kortrijk:


''An endless stream of not arseds to hang your ***** washing on/Ya forebearers are all mutts, your pallbearers will be too/You are a kazzoo blowing *******, an idiot's tac nightmare/seen two or three of your alleged family members puffing their chests out down the backtrack, propa knackas/Ya ma is very particular, your sister is as cold as a fortnight in the briar dene (although a fine dancer when she sets her mind to it/
Getting older or more toxic? Shushhhh, be kind/started hearing normans and lennys settling betting slips while I'm on the netty/dettol and despair- the golden duo made good/I'll be bed ridden in time for christmas- flannel pyjamas and sentimentality/heard your kid slagging uz & saw demons in the mist on the windee (window, *******)/cutting my losses/tobogganing hopes/
the left side of my chest is 85 the last weeks/the streets in Brussels speak to me and are canny this time of year/I am not a francophone by predilection/making a secret pact with the universe not to mourn its passing/Every social situation is becoming like a casino for *******/Starting to feel a little bit more Panzram than Ghandi/Flanders is flat cos someone trod on it while under the drink/I might have fitted better into a bygone era- a bewildering lack of manual skills- what came first the dial up internet in your ma's back room or my cack handedness/Don't have owt to tell anyone anymore, don't give two shites nevermind one/Your step brother watches hollyoaks and eats ****** snacks while your step sister hums songs of unknown origin''.
A bumbling idiot's invented history of tyneside:
''I saw 3 cats attack a pigeon in heaton park as bobby thompson, aka the little waster, danced suggestively with the setting sun, a serviette tucked down his front to catch his dinner....................mike neville cried in the dark, while suckling away at a glass tizer bottle from the arcade chippy in whitley bay, that day there was no news on tyneside......T Dan Smith liked a snack as much as the next man...but what he really liked was to drink a pint of water everytime the clock struck 36- that way he could **** the toon into oblivion at his own behest or the behest of occult forces.....I found Gazza, shellsuited, eating a child's portion of cod and chips in St Paul's church yard, in his ruddyu red hand was a 6 pack of socks from winners (the flagship store). Abandoned between his feet were 50 notebooks from the fisherman's mission.....don't get me started on sting''.

sq.
i.e. squadron
not sq.
i.e. square.

i was never going to go quietly into the "gentle night": if i were i go into the night i would awake the gods and lay claim to the mountains and the seas! i would pass the night with earthquakes and storms the earth has never seen! all because a ****** akin to a fictional character was spawned that undermined: less of a self and more of of a hierarchy of Darwinism... the proper order of "things"..."

well, it was a perfect day, a Matthew met a Matthew at the
bus-stop... i don't know why people confide in me...
our first meeting he was slagging a friend off...
he was into Taekwondo or was it Jujitsu...
he's having a hearing on the 21st of October for assaulting
someone, for insulting his Missus...
oh **** me: the honour of women?!
if women can't defend their own honours and airs...
what's there for me to do: mindless retorts coupled
with more mindless violence?
if that's what it takes to keep a woman? **** that...
but we talked... so, what's prison like?
i know a little background... i work with an ex-prison guard...
i know that the nonces are isolated and kept like
dodos in the prison system...
so it's not like Shawkshank Redemption...
more like Porridge? yeah... more like Porridge...
i too love women, but let me tell you, Matthew,
one Matthew said to another:
my grandmother was a *****...
he was dying for about a month...
when did she call me? a day before he died...
he was already in a hospice suffering from AGONIA...
i swear to my heart's content that
the telephone is no ******* cul de sac...
i was looking at the girl sitting next to us...
once Matthew no. 1 got off Matthew no. 2 was taking note:
she started sniffing and almost slobbering...
about to cry... TOUGH!

the shift at Wembley was a breeze...
quirky little me:
i'll support the Lionesses but i will not support the Three Lions
on a shirt... i'll support the women's international football:
thank **** those ***** best those Yankee ***** 2:1...
if those ******* are under performing i don't know
what i will do! they better be the best in the world!
and? currently?! they are!
good! they should be!

but i can't support the male team... i have my favourite
male team already... Argentina or Germany...
why? it's sport.... there's no clarifying why...
i finished the shift at 11pm... i would have been
come at circa 1am but i had to detour...
eh... brothel traffic... i was readied up... resorted to some
proper *******... i like a good **** like
i need to breathe... i need "vs." there's a good **** in place...

obviously i had to wait...
i was waiting for this plumb bursting cherry of a number...
she just came back from Romania and i just itched to
slap her ***... but she wasn't available...
thief! thief! awake!
who was available? i don't know her name:
well, i do, but i have forgotten it...
i remember her face alright...
and her most benevolent healthy pair of ****...
i could forget the existence of pears
and apples with them in my hands...

i showered prior to ******* after giving her the money...
i think women greatly appreciate the hygiene of
a man... i need to wash myself... i simply... have to!
after the shift i just look at these fuckless men...
some a tier above me in the workforces' hierarchy
who wallow in LEGO constructions and here i am...
******* off to the brothel...
well... if you have specific hobbies you either end up
wanting women or not wanting them:
bibliophilic "nuances" make you want women more
and more...
last time i heard i've only performed about
two ****** positions... and neither party is bored...
her on top or me arching over her in a missionary clutch...
arching...

i need *** as much as food...
not as much as air....
but no ******* DWARF is going to usurp / hide my hungers
in a fictive tale of games... now my game...
i bought 500ml of dry 8.2% cider... drank it
walking around with the moon on a "leash"...
rubbing my **** in the night...
just checking... healthy... blood's pumping...
sipped about 20cl from a 70cl of a bottle of Brandy...
kept rubbing: still healthy...
i really want this chubby cherry cherub of a ****
that's been away for almost a month...

bad luck... i had to have this one i first met while
having a ******* who performed the most pristine
hand-job... second time? i still don't know her name...
i don't remember having ******* with her...
just oral ***... oh... now i remember...
she implored me to not kiss her...
like **** that's going to happen this time round...
obviously i had to steal a kiss from her lips!
and i did!
i stole a kiss, i stole her lips...
does it matter is she ****** off a "dwarf" prior to me?
nope!

the skin of men is like the leather of animals drafted
into curating chairs and, etc.,
the more use the said material encounters...
the better it is...
            a **** always tastes and is worked better if it was
been worked by the many rather than the few...
for the first time i felt that i had a proper Kama Sutra
phallus... i was matched to a ****!
i was too big for once!

i was only halfway in when she started contorting her face
with a pain-agony...
it was rather beautiful to watch...
because i love that taste of uncertainty
when it comes to how a woman is pleasured and how she
is displeasured and what the **** is up with *******:
i don't want to know...

that's when she started admiring my hair chest
and hairy stomach... rubbing through the hairs...
that's when i started my war against Tyrion Lannister...
then she moved to fiddling with my beard...
and she called me... oh **** me: fiction dies right here and now:
she called me a Leu... yep... a Lion...

why then asked for my name: Matthew...
she didn't believe me... i growled my second name: Conrad...
settled!
we smoked and drank some more of the brandy...
i managed to "steal" a scarf from the match...
what a quick to steal: kleptomaniac...
sure... you can have the scarf... just give me one more
cigarette!

nothing can compare to the tender-firmness of a decent
pair of *******...
but kept asking: kept asking: what are you looking at?!
what are you looking at?!          YOU!
can't i... why are you looking at my so intensely?!
why?! WHY?! because i want my mouth
to turn into an eye and i want my eye sockets to
become two mouths with which to eat you with!

i'm tired of abstracting! to truly love women
you need about 3 or 4 passions,
if it's drinking: it must be drinking with a measure for
the appetite for woman: greater than the appetite
for drinking... if it's an appetite for books...
the appetite must be less than the appetite for reading
a woman's face during *******...
she must ask you:
why are you looking at me so intensively?!

sure, i too could have my Jamie Lannister moment
with a first cousin, a Justine, revealed...
my aunt, not much than 5 years removed from me....
me and my great-grandmother...
she and her grandmother....
running barefoot in the rain...
sorry are the stories we tow...

now i'll smoke a marijuana joint and
sleep the deepest of depths of nothings the world
will ever "learn" to fathom.

in light of a film coming out... the... what is it?
the american society of magical negroes...

for a little while i thought
i was in on something...
humour me or rather:
i'll humour myself...

                                         knee                    grow...

better still...

            akin to Samuel Beckett's Watt
                                           custard pie of verbiage:

a Mrs. Grown, née Grow used to
appreciate the theatre,
before meeting a Mr. Grown who
had no ear or heart for theatre
and instead adored opera and cinema...

these have become somewhat "angry"
statements concerning:
it would have been a privilege once
to be privileged so by nothing
equipping me to succumb to an Englishness...

only recently during a shift
a company rep
who i met ages ago supervising on level 5
of Wembley with:
that baby faced black giant
i'll call Alfredo for now...

come to think of it: race relations have
never been better: no since that
hiccup after a most glorious childhood
in the mid to late 1990s
something happened
akin to angry youths rioting at
Tottenham or some **** or other...
or: there was a designated desire for
materialism: so they started stealing bicycles
because there is no road tax invoked...

so this brown skinned... Pakistani Bangladeshi...
Indian... never mind:
we all look alike i've been identified
as Albanian, Croat, Swede, German, Russian...
us white people all look alike: don't you think?
it's a white "privilege", "thing"...

i thought Albanian was rather weird
since i have nothing southern European
going for me...        
but this walks up to me and starts to embrace
my hands....
oh... i love where i work...
it's in full scrutiny of the c.c.t.v. so nothing
can be hidden...
he comes up to me an embraces my hands
with his...
says:

i've been sitting in this corridor with the other
company reps, in the dire cold...
my... you have really warm hands...
and we stand there embraced with hands in hands
one brown skinned boy
with a white skinned boy...
i think: rather weird...

i even managed to convince Francis the...
an African of sorts
to work his charm on the ladies
at the vending vans outside the L.S.
to give me free food...
and supposedly we're now buddies...
as the saying goes: black don't crack...
he might look like he's in his 50s by white standard
but i suspect he's in his 70s...
loud *******... almost grotesque
in his broken english but bulging lungs
of some baboon baroque boom boom boom...
not that i never think of myself
as the albino aqua **** similis...
because i do so it's not a real insult
if i'm also bewildered by my lack of tail:
although i have more hair:
on face, head, back, torso, legs, ***...

of note... i had to overhear the Englishman
in his 60s... frustrated, demoted,
given less responsibility:
how these types will cling to faking anti-racism
and begin slagging of eastern "Europeans"...
listen: i don't have the heart to beat an already
beaten dog... so this group classification
of eastern "Europeans" like there's no difference
between the Polacks the Hungarians
Lithuanians... it's just poor education:
or rather - to have been educated in
a hyper-geography of tourism that extends towards
Somalia and Hawaii...
but even i don't like to be grouped
in the term eastern "European"...

            because there really isn't a term
western "European" given that that's pretty clear
the immediate distinctiveness of the French
the English, the Spanish, the Italians...
so this gas cage this rummaging in a collectivism
is sort of... unbecoming?
but like i said: i let the comment slide...
because i don't really have a hunchback
to lean on in terms of: historical reparations blah blah
and sorting the salt from the snort of *******...

but something is emerging...
new race relations...
                i always had a positive race relations mantra
instilled in me...
all the way back from Poland
via a Juliusz Tuwim poem 'murzynek bambo':
accusations: because it was written by a Heb?

so much false-accusatory sensibility-ism
off an -ism off an -ism
        yet none to gratify some diminutive
concept of what is so otherwise so wrapped in
grandiosity of: neither spectacle nor... problem...

בֵּית
             b, yes... ah... *** *** army of Tottenham Hotspur:

beit...           y... י

        and.                                      ת  

טֵית (teis)

            סָ             wait... not teis? tey't?

סָ sa
                 מֶ m'eh

       ךְ (X)              harking k'h...

                      well **** me it's not mysterious to me:
ś š         ć č             ę
               ł                                   ż           ź

סךּי

sky - samekh kaf sofit yod

   a sky filled with ʊn       i.e. 'uns
rather than noons: ω: oohs and oozing more oohs...
the double-o's rather than...
what? quadruple the u's? into u u uu's?

   working from sky...           sea...

       QERE...

                          יָם         (mem yod...
or rather... yod...      a....     m....          yam)

yes it is...

                    שָׁמַיִם

hmm...                  ends with an m...
begins with a sh...
although a slightly different sh...

definitely a sha-
      
                         shin dot right not left so SH not S...
sha... ma... yi-          -m

what was i asking? earth in 'ebrew?
shamayim...   no... sky... oh lookie lookie...
i'm starting to get the hang of reading hebrew...

sky, sea...             earth...

אָבָק            a a down below... a tale of two Adams...
and already one on top, the Alpeh...

אָ (Aa)
א (A)

בָ (va)

             with ק being Qof...

Aavaq                  earth is aavaq...

   so it is: dust... or by extension a hint...
          
                                     as much as can be ascribed
to the mystery of the yod (י)

i ascribe as much to the following combinations
that i call the bridge of sighs...
or the bridge of hiriq-tzere-segol...
                    where Eve and Lilith reside...

אה

                                                                  חע

and in turn reversed: toward the bridge of laughter.

you know that point in the day
when you're so drunk
and you're listening to you-tube
and thinking:
so they're sober, o.k. o.k.,
   and they have "serious"
                                    opinions?
  **** me! idaho! casablanca
          and el dorado all in one!
**** being witty, time to look
                           super stupid.
           - obviously they
deserve an oscar, since their
opinions are not serious,
given they're getting paid,
and aren't activists, but "journalists";
  **** going to a comedy club,
watch mainstream news on t.v.
          or alternative news
on the internet slagging everyone
off for not being indie enough.

granny gave some cough medicine, granny pooped up some Sean penn (pen pen, ******* pen why the extra N) medicine... granny was this granny was that... you start slagging off this generation? 3rd of millenials living with their parents? good luck living with your: grandparents; *****-slap ****** whopper-wha-wha? don't know: thought ****, said no said: really became constipated after a Friday take-away having learned: i really don't trust food that i don't cook myself... i don't care if it's fish & chips, esp. if in the hands of a Turk... a turkish barber? no problem... a fish & chips turk? that's a ******* big problem... 3rd party sources? you really want me give a testimony of diarrhoea? honest to god: why did people abandon the concept of cooking their own food being equivalent to a hygiene?! people wash so much and yet eat in places that might be riddled with pathogens of unhygienic people! which is, after all a presupposition: if you haven't had the *****.*

(da faaaaack
               am i doing
             here?
  feels like being
a butler with
       a: complient
**** your **** off
bias to
  manage:
  what fame-claim
can't allow
you to manage)
                           \
                             \
                                 it's called poetry
becoming compliment-cartoonish...
it means: let me draw you a square -
and treat it like a triangle...
   it's a ******* quote bubble.

better still... call that a:
interpretation of self-consciousness:
because coupling these two words
really worked out well
                      for care of history.

This thickness I feel
I've been inhibited
as if surgery waited
and you were
indifferent

cut away margins
of caring
boilt bone
and steam
an' I slough off

heaps of me
slagging down
upon myself
piles of mess
to be done with

and me hoping
for reinterpretation
of these scrapings
and small puddles
glistening with

You’re dragging behind
Dragging behind,
Your kids left you behind,
Slagging behind

Maybe if you were more kind,
The eldest wouldn't have left you behind,
Maybe if you gave him peace of mind,
The middle wouldn't have left you behind,
Maybe if you never commented on her outline,
The youngest wouldn't have left you behind.

You’re dragging behind
Dragging behind,
Your kids left you behind,
Slacking behind as you whine.

In time,
I know that you will find,
Karma loves to feast on the rind,
Of those who are purposefully purblind.