In some sense,
we’re all proportionately configured
if we will grow,
to be with adjustment’s ideation

solidity is not a beautiful thing
when mixed with fearful rigidity
a hex is really just a RUDE blessing

    Till we strut, shan’t we be living
Please Pass the pickled Beets

The Curtain of Time

Suspended between earth and heaven this thick dark smokiness has the beginning of time at one end and the other for now is in flux
A song of this same name says he gave me beauty for ashes let’s take a look at the ashes from earths side everything is disintegrating
All material matter is in a metamorphic state of decay new today gone tomorrow even people wear out always in the mind a true crux
Forever their beginning is rehearsed and their end never has an ending discussion we fret about what is missed by each side the loss

Look at what they missed in this year alone independence day the remembering the celebration the retelling of former glory
Peer through the curtain in front men of giant stature the founders are speaking of their exploits our loved ones give rapt attention
The father of our country gives a simple discourse of those crowning achievements there isn’t a dry eye after the telling story
This side books old and worn tell us what happened there it is breathed vouched by those it happened to the thrill reverberates

Earths snail pace lost just insignificant fractions compared to the speed of light travel beyond the curtain by thought you are there
The smoky curtain side families constrict the currents ever wider race and fills ancestral logs overwhelmed you set among your own
People that it would be hard to trace and show relation come up and give you hugs their peaceful nature leaves you a joyful air
Playing among angels and no worries will do that to you make you carefree seasoned by trailing what ifs then they turn to what is

The smoky side is brighter when facts are figured the sum of man is not told and then ended by the sod and marble stone
You touch the world with limited understanding you go to the place rich discoveries fold out of one another continuously
Amazement the norm you once plodded now you are the measureless wind free held only to heavens keel the stars out shone
In the kinetic flow all you need to know is enter designs that glory alone defines these unending lines eternal the curtain no more

it is raining,
with a smokiness
lisping through the
stifling air.

the haze tightens
its fist around my
neck - red tremors
in my eyes

the trembles of the
fog are grace in my
ears; but smoke alarms
still tick in these halls.

that part of her is gone.
the part that makes the right decisions.
she abandoned it, with the hope
that she would feel.
those vultures eat her up;
scorching her innocence.
she'll take any closeness,
even if it's the wrong kind.
anything to feel wanted.
when all she ever felt was superfluous.
whispered nothings soothe her ears,
empty embraces chain her down.

fill your liver with love toxins,
your lungs with that sanguine smokiness.
take yourself to that world.
where, for a night, you are needed.

sitting by the phone, diminished confidence.
she opens her little black book...
and writes.

yes... cold-turkey for a day...
the one will do it...
i just smoked a second one...
and the "hit" is not as benevolent...
simple arithmetic...
a carton is 200 cigarettes...
that's 200 days...
if i stick to this "pattern"...
no pointless cigarettes...
with coffee first thing in the morning:
on the medical "fast"...
after a grand meal...
cold-turkey throughout the day...
one balanced with a generous
amount of bourbon: surfing
the night-cap...
this could work...
      no... no point paying homage
to the romance of rolling tobacco...
a single marlboro will do...
esp. if it comes from eastern europe...
to have to start to treat it
as homage... something...
sacred... that's better than simply
quitting...
much... much better...
this late pseudo-caffeine hit
in the day...
first day... 2 cigarettes in a drinking
session is unnecessary...
one will do...
receptors become blunted...
and now the gratification from
"over-stepping" the mark...
and the gratification of...
not bound to a tarantula numbing-bite...
something has to make sense in
this world: let's begin with this...

i.e. thank god i do not make videos...
writing doesn't really allow
for... what happens with
a video... there's the preserved:
address to the writer...
and the medium of the reader...
rarely will you find yourself
bound to read two readers
competing: for the crown
prince of echo chamber...
not that i'd reply... no higher power...
a laptop... no mobile device...
the internet access is static...

2 is a "magic" number...
after 2 i imagines the gateway: fully opened
for the orc horde of dwugs:
      i'm standing: upright... content...
to tease the addiction...
as if: "as if" for the very first time...
cold turkey my ***...
because of covid-19 "discrepancies"...
no "black market" cheap cigarettes
from moldova...
or romania... poland, ukraine or
bulgaria...

            checked the feed-drip...
cold-turkey for a day...
complete the day with a cigarette...
200 cigarettes in a carton at...
£35... that's what... per annum?
       365... we're talking about...
roughly... 50 quids worth...
of: taming this beast...

                 for a year...
                              yes... this could
very much work...
            and what is the perfect sandwich...
of... extravagance?
a bagel... or some toasted rye...
english butter... smoked salmon...
cucumber... dill... mayonnaise...
and... rainbow trout caviar...
is caviar "all that"?
     it's like marmite... you either love it:
or... hate it...
it's not a luxury... if it was...
a luxury... it would be universally sought
after...
it would be a luxury... for both the rich...
as it would be for the poor...

minor note: how were oysters treated
in Dickensian times?
weren't oysters the food of the poor?
and now? suddenly they have become
a luxury product...
something only the rich are supposed
to enjoy... cods-wallop!

caviar is not a luxury...
but... if you're asking questions about
a palette...
rainbow trout caviar balances out
the smoked salmon...
truly... the fish retains its status as fish...
and the smokiness is tamed...
almost subverted...

the cucumber the dill the mayonnaise...
auxiliary details...
but of course the cemented base:
toasted rye works as many more:
lazarus resurrected miracles as a bagel...

caviar is not a luxury...
in st. petersburg there's this pancake
fast-food outlet... where caviar is dripping...
there are copious amounts of this
**** dished out...
not everyone buys the caviar panny...
because: caviar is not a status symbol
of luxury... it's in the category of marmite...
it's for oddities...
       it's equivalent to... a concentrated
taste of fish...
burst a pill of shark oil fat... omega 3 etc...
perhaps...
    
  once upon a time... TRAN...
was forced upon children in school...
so they could harbour a strong immune system...
tran? cod-liver oil... no... not in capsules...
on the end of a teaspoon...

can i imagine eating caviar...
beside the zenith of the above described
sandwich? well... yeah...
but it wouldn't be rainbow-trout caviar...
beluga / caspian sea caviar...
on the tip of... a slice of...
a napoli pizza...
    anchovies do not have a taste
of fish... salty shrimp whittle wichards...
the best fish: are ate...
with all their bones intact...
sometimes even their heads and eyes...
like...
           smoked... sprats...
nonetheless: caviar is not a luxury product...
nor is blue cheese...
who doesn't have...
a taste for... the "obscene"?

   peanuts and beer in the grand hall of
the west...
in st. petersburg... beer and dehydrated
shrimps... fish...
same ****... different cover...
i much prefer the extra guise of protein
over the fat of nuts... with a beer...

as a warning: oysters were... in Dickensian times...
eaten by the poor of the east end...
and caviar... that's like marmite...
or... salt & vinegar crisps...
you need to appreciate the piquant
detail of the food...
champagne... for example?
i can't drink that fuzzy-brain
anorexic ***** juice of cat... whiskers for
a violin... snarl... shreek...

caviar is not a luxury...
a luxury would imply: a universal...
translation... that... all those who could:
would want it... as much as those who
can't: would strive to also want it:
with enough savings to begin with: could...
but... caviar is marmite...
then again... smoked salmon is marmite...
a steak tartar(e) is  marmite...
i'd call a slab of beef: well done
to be... a doubly-butchered piece of meat...
others... are fond of... fish-fingers...

this can be done...
i can keep track of this choo-choo-train...
200 cigarettes per carton...
that's beyond half a year...
     cold turkey the day...
no... 2 cigarettes is too much...
after the whole day done cold turkey...
it's a beneficial ferris-wheel "dilema"
at the end of the day...
oh... esp. with the bouron...
yes... the matter is not going to be
approved for dialectical concerns...

i call for the advent of "sanctimony"...
         the "superiority" coming from the depths
of... not the cold-turkey lot...
nor the: 20 per day...
and zinc and copper licking tongue
numbing at the end of it...
this one a day...
                     and the bourbon...
ogh! mein gott! come to think of it...
the money?!
money comes last...
so much for "saving" the money from...
not smoking...
where to: a vinyl collection...
aaah... a weekend trip to Prague...
you really need a woman
to spend money...
           given that one can become
very... very... satisfied with
the basics...
esp. when one isn't a gambling man...
these days... gamble on what?
well... save up...
and have *** with a bulgarian *******
once a year...
or pretend to...
            that's probably best...
aim at... salvaging... the most...
wortheless maxim of a translation
of value... in the flesh:
the inanimate concept of money...
the guillotined head
of ol' lizzy the II charming
the heads / tails science debate...
          not getting richer...
not getting poorer...
                   playing a sleeper...
beside the essentials...
it's there... but... it's not there...
it's hardly spending...
it's hardly saving...
      it's a cushion... it's not avarice...
it's not...
beside of note:
the veil that's not in iron...
but is... like...
being paid in peanuts...
peanuts... pebbles... the common
denominator of: one-hundred copper-pence
coins in a brass pound!
i'll settle for... just that.

Lately I feel weighed down
as chocolate coated brown.
I taste sweet, a cherry lollipop,
fizzy as orange soda-pop.
But inside I’m dissonant ebony,
masked in shrouds of revelry.
I bask all day in purple haze.
Run amok in a cornfield maze,
behind yellow walls of acid rain,
indelible as a port-wine stain.
Smell the smokiness of me.
I’m a jar of potpourri.

I am empty
I said
In not so many words
The veiled confessions dripping off his ears like candle wax
As the wick burns down
Filling the room with a palpable smokiness
That only I can sense

I am choking
I am crawling
I can feel my light fading

For I am a teacup
Sitting on a shelf
Dusty but decorated
My handle pointed towards the wall
Breakable
And uninspired

How I long to be filled with more than emptiness
To have him pour all of his being into my heart and mind
To have him look into my eyes and see more than himself
But each confession only serves to deepen the loneliness
As a search for a soul to listen through the words

it's not exactly cymande's dove -
    it's mytho's dreamlab (1975) -
  a dedication to wernher von braun -
on the odd occasion
the youtube algorithm feeds
me a nostalgia of suggestions
like it used to: and i forage for
new music...
nucleus' alleycat from the same year...
well:
i'm no bukowski and this is not
one of those moments to
test my strengths of patience
for mahler's: how i will die
with this deafness -
    i know what's lacking in my life
is having listened to the oeuvre...
or have read melville's moby ****...
somehow horizons of
new complete: upon a arrival with
a nudge from charon -
i will come against myself:
rather than upon myself...
by chance...
  that this is not high-brow literature
by any stretch of the imagination:
but i believe myself to be
endowed within the confines
of the democratic process -
a quiver a trembling...
i had to do several impossible
things today...
i laughed from conjuring
a memory while
painting some "chess board"
darkened oak of a makeshift
for the climbing rose to aspire to
with a cling...
i scratched my teeth -
i pretended to play
a violin by fiddling
with my beard:
no exactly de profundis:
but god... how i miss my chin...
i patted myself on the head
while pretending to vortex
imitation over my tummy -
this new man needs to
imagine the process of
caricature of insemination -
i am not the same willing
***** that gave me: you...
   pronoun baggage -
it's so tender in this english:
all english that can be
completely missing in: mutterzunge...
miles davis' ******* brew...
a composition
to imitate the crashing of
piano...
        as i drink i keep a tally...
once i fed an rainbow trout's eye
to a cat...
once i fed a female mosquito to
a cat...
once i had a dog and...
i couldn't possibly rob myself
of a memory of childhood by owning
a dog now...
i am quasi-jealous of people
who have dogs...
it's enough that i tow along
a shadow when i "expatriate"
beyond my day-to-day
trajectory - when
i want to experience an automatic
thinking - pointless memory
weathering -
i sometimes want this completeness
of the incomplete...
no higher sentiments...
new music: not something that
could cradle youth and
the stadium anthem -
something -
even now: one can become
tired of drinking and the occasional
smoke...
           i wouldn't want
to find myself returning to
a paragraph or a novel -
when reading: yes...
    but i couldn't stand the agony
of... not without this impromptu...
sedated into a comfort
looking upon the oeuvre of
jack spicer...
   my grandfather owns
the whole lot of alexander dumas...
i'm petrified of this
microcosm of a forest stashed
on a shelf...
         grand baron apostrophe in
english is so amazing...
i mean: the pedant's treat:
a pedantic treat -
            you can be allowed so many
deviations from orthodoxy -
you can almost wriggle your
way into an imitation jonah -
anglophile i am:
but i see no london burning -
teasing from the outskirts -
flute come to the party...
accent of impressionism -
   diacritical markers -
         i know that i am not writing
for money for excavating purposes:
i can make these little purposes
of fail all the time...
i want to own this language
as if i were born within its confines:
such that i am: "late" arrival:
thrown into the deep end come
me ate: eight - better - eating...

         gladly... because i arrived to it...
it wasn't dictated from "above"
like german or russian might have...
even though: ich muss necken
           alt vater:
              deutschespreschen...
for posterity... ahem... glum looking
joke...
not because i want to champion
the affair of: ****** the private individual...
beside the stage and oration:
yes... clearly he wasn't cut for painting...
i need to fail on writing
this nibbling from the exterior
with an ulterior purpose of tao -

zen my ****'s last worth...
conundrum: a really decent bicycle or...
two hours in a brothel...
hell... perhaps three...
but the bicycle and the return to
the days of drooling over
traffic and nibbling at essex...
i know that i don't know this
over-sexing is me being caged...

well... if you're going to be over-sexed:
pulverised toward status: neuter -
i sometimes mind: not minding...
the genetic argument doesn't really work
on me... given...
i could pass on... hardly the usain bolt
genes...
i could really pass on the most
severe indignation:
i like to call this...
the self-realisation that those
gene-power-proof german doctors
of the ***** had some sense:
in staging such grotesque arguments...

    for the purpose of a pleasure that
i can exhaust...
i don't even need to summon
frankenstein's monster argument:
it's not pivotal -
  when the hormones raged -
fair enough...
                   i can exhaust the argument
with all the readily available *******
and: i will not have to look out
for...                 the trojan dye-d'oh...
or...        ms. dill, ms. dough...

                       from the mother tongue
i couldn't possibly write such
nuances of sounds...
i would be left ******* with crisp cut...
orthographical measures -
   i'd be arguing over: pedantic subject
matters... none of this "poetry" /
graffiti...

                     scratching something vinyl:
elongating some liquorice...
detailing the zenith of england
prior to the dissolution
of the empire...
                  
   in all god given honesty i feel inclined
to be... living here...
it's supposedly not much
but i sense a becoming warmth
as to how...
   it would sometimes take
great care for me to not put on
my "sociopathic" chameleon disguise
of burdening accents:
from the original take:
we're all gammon and himalayan
salt indistinguishable sometimes...

but the affairs of the copperskins...
the camel jockeys, the choccies...
well... at least i'm not colour blind...
i forget to see white...
i forget to nudge some black...
black? you mean: cardamom
with that smokiness -
or nigella seeds?
                 that's black... coal is black...
frank zappa's ****** hair is
black... ***** likewise...
i forgot to be colour blind...

     give me hues!
          give be bold bulging gargoyle-esque
****** features to scare the demons
away...
no?
it has to be a variation
on a new sort of: "racism"...
if we're going to survive the basic lesson...
leave me in the grey humpty-dumpty
area of omelette...
            this be here: the dozen
of eggs that became...
a feast for serpents that didn't become
leather boots... or purses...

leave me to this little cul de sac
of imitation jazz...
  
        synchronised: coincidentally -
but more: a sigma purpose:
  an in totalis - a variation of polyphony -
new jargon - elevated new jargon...
an australian concept of
a savoury-esque dessert -
a beetroot ice-cream...

   pause: syllable cutter:
    not co-in-cidentally -
               a... variation of: ex similis:
but not simultaneously -
too many ******* vowels!
hear it one way: write another...
english is as bad as fwench...
grr...

           well yeah: i'm doing something
more than my supposed democratic
obligation:
i am not voting because i will
write for: the purpose of writing...
english democracy is looked upon
by russian strategists as something
that extends to allow transvestites
and other magpie exotica...

         this current life: this private
adventure...
      would i gladly summon these letters
in such a manner that i...
oh don't bother:
gladly "expatriate": gladly exile...
come to think of it...
if i were to argue about orthography
for so much time as i were
to be alive in...
        english adjusts and makes
pardonable the nuances of grammar...

little can be said: of the already
little given...
                      i want to jump high...
the caged ******* sonnet...
i planned sleep prior to writing this...
that's about it...
once... no... now:
i want to rekindle a fetish for
toying with going full commando
in denim...
  and... to twist the plot...
a ******* will always be nibbled
by the zipper...

it's: the evening i discovered ian carr's nucleus...
the original title simply read as: it's...
then some grandiosity appeared
with a mountain being towed...
and a fairytale...

this grand composure of
the bass routine... ***-ar...
drums on one side...
and solo projects on the other...
something so pristine without
lyrics - which is something i hoped
to exploit... not necessarily make synch...
i'm not a beat poet and i will
not read my words over a jazz:
as some refrigerator humming:
dulling these already pronounced
accents of sound:

a moth twice the size of my thumb
makes attempts to posit a selfie
with its: my eyes' scrutiny:

the jazz quintet is hardly an orchestral
testament of polyphony -
but... teasing at an earl grey in
inconveniences of "lacking"...

a dull moth the size of two thumbs
pressing against each other:
my little loitering project of future:
in eternity from bypassing:
on the the behalf of over punctuation:
as that clarity in the future of words...
or a lack of it...
with etymology...

******* into the sink...
simultaneously flushing the toilet
while washing your hands:
new age of multitasking...

by way of talking to cats:
herr mimic something akin to: ćć..
which is not the english CH - tugging along
the tetragrammaton...
or the full crown of the czech: caron...
                            č...
it's more slush-puppy piquant...
the sort of "thing" that defies
imitation with ny borrow of
meow or bark...

on my bookshelf:
madame bovary in a single tomme -
and... that opening line
of tolstoy's anna...
that misery is unique: particular -
to borrow the old greek dichotomy -
while happiness is ubiquitous -
generic -
             therefore universal...
indistinguishable from
a buddha to a screwdriver
from a jesus christ or a christening
of the next new plotline of
psychopathy...

           halves the hour: in that such
an album is half an hour's worth...
sooner a route relay
with the royal mile and cow gate
towing for any tourist come
edinburgh...

             beside myself:
i will not ever... torture myself
with a novel or a paragraph...
it either comes... or it doesn't...
it's not exactly courting a used to:
coherency...
and you are the reader...
club of exclusivity -
i have written by never bothered
to read back what it is
that i spewed out...

okokamona from roots (1973)...
cow bell... teasing nazareth's:
hair of a dog...
led zeppelin's dyer maker: "jamaica"...
yes... *****'s heaving
a son...
                     some variation of
abortions galore -
that i eat plenty of them in a poultry
feast come morning -
that i'm later scratching
the least of a possible pride:

white gold rubric:
michael pfeiffer...
sharon stone...
              a grizzly with a snub
at an alias: Tobias...
         next leftover project of expansive
"thinking": this little detail of moi too...
come again?
come again?
   *** ah'dzin: eh? gin...
it's not a giggle: it's not a girdle...
it's mr. dzin / jinn... tow the tonics
yourself..
some variation of fripp
is nothing near a hendrix -
some variation is all we heave
to have to topple...

lazy whitey jazz like some
interlude in rainy towing
scaffolds of seattle -
   settled peaches or... thereby plums
to the pulp of the excavations
made mad by pristine...
this feeble work-around
of flesh... in fruit or via
pork with offal... sequences
of bible bashing and that up-kept year
of langid promise echoes...

oh ******* of the most pristine
bluebottle types of flies
congregating:
there's no pawn broker of
klansman in sight...
to wed bed-sheets to a scrutiny of
ghosts...
that such a word
is still scrutinised with a hyphen
"interlude" and that it
can't be... classically: deutsche...
compounded into
a juggling act of syllables?
m'eh!

it has to be a variation of elitism...
   not because it actually is...
but that there's a necessary niche biped
wanting:
to have this kept sacrificial
lamb and a sacrilege of it's purpose
to make grief (grieve, slightly)
(of) a lack of demands
for the impossible task...
english can't be consolidated:
england can be bent to forward
a cosmopolitan rot of an idea...
england can be anything the rodney plonkers
want it to: Clapham want it to
burrow...

english and the universal rubrics
of grammar...
yes no right yore sire...
my missing sir... my drum solo project...
my mobias **** -
my amore amore amore! dulce primo:
linguo - kaff et normandy: genesis...

for the exertion of a patience...
that could never come bu was nonetheless
expected:
by dog races in the abandoned
stadium: of a looted womfowd tool fow
exhauted torn...
  maybe vels - or velsh...
or really? this is not scripted teasing
dubliner gaelic?!

dear arthur bell...
   come on...
you don't get to brew a fine
amber: for popular consumption
and also allow yourself
to infuse it with
a laphroaig smokiness:
**** stains the palette!
***** over 'ere knew his ****...
kept it tight: and sweet...
smokiness doesn't
refine the ****** scotch
when you drink as much
as i do...
  it simply ruins
                  the palpability...
and you really need to be
serious about drinking:
to be able to spot the "problem"...
three types of sushi...
***... scotch and baltic...
thank **** that only
one of them has a smokey
element to boot.

squirt (title): pompoms scream (body) - to bypass the 502 Error Gateway...

second shift at Craven Cottage, the Fulham stadium...
well **** me...
i was in luck! Tony, this ex-military supervisor
asked me straight up: you want to do pitch-side?
do i?! the first shift i did was walking around
the park outside the venue, meeting & greeting incoming
fans... but to be allocated a more responsible role?!
you cannot believe how refreshing work has become:
you cannot believe how refreshing tiredness from
work has also become...
i don't know how it happened, but...
ARBEIT MACHT FREI is... ringing high and loud...
perhaps that slogan over a concentration camp
was always a bad joke...
i can't imagine that the Germans thought all the Hebrews
were lazy, not diligent workers...
even my grandfather remembers Hebrews in Poland
selling matchsticks and getting rich,
after all, what was that pre-war saying the Hebrews
had when putting down Polacks?
ah... wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets, our tenements...
maybe the Germans thought that a lot of Hebrews were
studying in the Yeshiva? nothing practical for society,
or that all Hebrews were somehow rabbis...
whatever it was... well a slogan above the entrance
to a concentration camp: where in a concentration
camp you'd perform a parody of work,
e.g. move one sack of rocks from one end of the camp
to another, to later move it back...
it's not like concentration camps were... munition factories...
a German bad joke...
but if, like me, you spent your 20s and early 30s
working in patches... the odd week on a construction site
doing some roofing, the odd month...
but mostly concentrating on writing...
and now this, steward at a football match...
some rigour re-imbued, some strategy,
some responsibility... i can't press the matter further...
sure, i'm not a football player, i'm not a film actor,
i'm not even the head safety officer in the ground...
i only put on some identifying clothes...
an accreditation badge and a uniform...
what did i get? people asking me questions as to where
to go, if they were sat in the correct seat...
for a man to feel useless, to be without authority:
that's horrible, writing poo'ems would never give me
that...
a compliment from a supervisor when i pointed
out that a woman was drinking wine in view
of a football pitch: which is illegal...
'nicely spotted'... after he approached her and asked
her to finish her wine from view of the pitch...
at the end of the match three boys came up to me
and asked me whether they could
pinch a piece of the pitch...
i let them... how their faces illuminated the place:
it was so dear to them: i couldn't just not let them
(mind you, they only pinched a piece of the astro-turf
lining the actual grass pitch, they didn't hear
that they were pinching fake grass...
let me leave them happy, after all...
i was providing a service)...

prior to leaving for Putney Bridge from Newbury Park
(first getting two buses there,
oh, i'd say a good decent 2 hour trip,
i've started to fall in love with commuting)...
one quick hot dog, with a Turkish toppish
of squeezed onions, parsley,
white wine vinegar, salt, sugar, gochugaru chilli flakes
& some sumac - well... squeezing the onions
releases their juices, making them less bitter:
actually sweet...
i only came back to Romford on the 86 bus
having arrived by train from Stratford
to Goodmayes - it's still zone 4...
all buses are zones one to four... Romford being
in zone six (if using a train or the tube)...
a two piece chicken meal with fries & a coca cola
zero... gulped down at approx. 12:20...
then... the most glorious cigarette to add smokiness
to the digestion...

starting work, proper, in your mid-30s...
while your 20s were spent unravelling a psychotic breakdown,
borderline schizophrenia:
that wouldn't fly, my supposed "schizophrenia"
dissolved when the element of bilingualism came in...
why should i only "hear voices" in English...
when i didn't hear them in ******?
the illness made no sense...
it didn't tap into my bilingualism...
why?! i read up a lot on this topic,
from Julian Jaynes, Jung, Richard Bentall,
R. D. Laing... no mention of schizophrenia coming up
against bilingualism...
misdiagnosis?!
i was never going to be merely a ******* victim...

now i see the bigger picture, music always helps...
the overseer - glass + unbreakable soundtrack,
James Howard's theme...
sure, the bonus of being pitch-side was also being
able to watch the match...
making new friends... well... colleagues...
i talked with Danny about our interests...
his was crypto-currency mine was music & cycling...
he used to cycle: until he hit a tree...
blah blah... time flies when you're talking...

oh such a little role of heroism on my part...
just minding people...
all this life truly requires is these little roles of heroism,
of responsibility...

i was at university, dated... i worked as a sub-contracting
roofer on construction sites...
i'm sorry to say this...
no relationship with a woman comes close...
to the amount of satisfaction received from
having a role that's more than a mere job you get paid for...
being responsible for the safety of others is...
probably somewhere in the hierarchy of where
the status of teacher is placed...
yet not with the current affairs of pedagogy:
of indoctrinating younglings into ideology:
whatever it's called these days...
intersectional *******, anti-racism, critical race theory...
teach them ******* English: the language,
teach them geography, chemistry, history,
don't turn them into spineless zombies
where they resort to a "rebellion" of succumbing
to football fanaticism...

me & Danny concluded: he "supports" Arsenal,
i "support" West Ham... but, "support": not really...
i just love the sport itself... i wouldn't be found a mile away
from the nearest crowd of avid club chanters...

my god, how refreshing to be in a position of authority,
even if it involves being at the bottom
of the hierarchy, being merely a pawn...
i can pull it off though... a welcoming yet intimidating look...
6ft2, 98kg... two jackets clad...
arms folded in front of me, arms folded at my back...
calm, collected... smiling... observant...
perhaps relationships with women were great...
they filled that void i was fed by literature prior
to my engagement with the opposite ***...
did i leave these relationships disillusioned?
of course!

   would i ever return to them? my heart is a stone...
mein herz ist ein kleinstein...
it has stopped bothering me, it bothers me less & less...
i'm not built for love, for romance,
that's why i don't want to write about it,
or even think about it...
i imagine that should a scenario present itself...
i'd be loved: but i wouldn't be able to love...
i'd merely... insinuate... i'd be on the receiving end
whilst doing the utmost minimal to
reciprocate... i'd be a cold-hearted *******...
oh... the mushy-colt aged 21 is long gone...
thank god...
could i love again? intimacy i can get with
a ******* in a brothel and not think twice
that a girl outside the profession of prostitution might
not give me an *******: again: is there something
wrong with me? why can a ******* give me
an ******* while some random girl picked up
in a bar, can't?!

i prefer talking to strangers than i ever preffered
talking to established friends...
it's not high-school anymore... there's no more
high-school banter... come to think of it...
the formality and the clear lines one cannot trespass
when conversing with strangers / colleagues...
come to think of it:
i'd tend to tell strangers more than the people
i was friends with... taboos enter the dynamics of friendships...
you can't tell of your innermost woes to friends,
after all... with friends you're supposed
to have a good time! no?

**** that... with strangers, with my shadow...
i burned down the bridges of my friendships a long time ago...
now i walk in the realm of Hades...
and i'm all the happier for it...
there were four major attachments in my life...
i lost one in the past year: my grandfather...
under circumstances that are, to be frank... rather horrid...
and... now that over a year has passed...
i feel... no... not relieved... i feel: RE-LEASED...
from some sort of heartbreak *******...

it's coming up to a quarter to 3am...
i have a shift this Sunday at the Wembley Stadiun
for the women's FA final,
my supervisor told me as i left Craven Cottage
that there was a good chance i'd get a chance to work
indoors... **** yes...
plenty of children to burn my eyes out:
not mine, not mine, thank god for that...
i don't need to be a father to them...
what a release from some bogus obligation that
in life you have to procreate...
hell... others can do that for me... i can just stand watch
and observe how...
this be the verse, Philip Larkin...
little chance of failure, or disappointment...
the Pontius Pilate approach...

it's a quarter to 3am and i just finished my shift,
my feet are somewhat sore, somewhat chilly,
who would have thought
that standing in one place, or two places
could be so exhausting: i'd rather walk a length of
a marathon than stand on duty...
the air outside looks like... a glass of water
with someone having splashed a dollop of milk into it...
it's so... murky, so... ambivalent...
so literally foggy...

no, not me... i was once the great romantic...
after being injected with the three musceteers,
with Stendhal's the scarlet & black...
i'm the one now saying:
work is better than an intimate relationship with
a woman... moi?! pour putain de l'intention
(is that, for ****'s sake?)
i'm trying to word with with spite...
i'my trying, i'm trying... no... no good...
on the way back some girls eyeing me up...
i try to think of the guys not being eyed up...
invisible creatures...
i hope i'm not much to look at either...
but can a woman do more for me than work?
i don't think so...
i'm such a fan of this hierarchic dynamic,
a work ethic, professionalism...
i don't think i could give myself up, on a whim...
my life can leave traces of fulfillment i generate myself:
this writing... well... it's obviously not Tolstoy...
just a product of these times...
i'll settle for that...
i'll also settle for being merely any overseer in a football
stadium than a rock-star, or actor:
never mind being a heart-surgeon...

but me, the once great romantic...
reduced to a function that mere guarantees him
a pawn status... the microcosm of overseeing
a football match: it is merely a microcosm...
in the grand scheme of things:
a newly found focus... returning with gladness to:
i am small... i'm a unit...
i am insignificant... writing creatively can rob you
of this perspective... infuse you with a sickly
megalomania...
it's best to return, to reality, to people...
away from the high-brow insecurities of an ivory
tower... it's so... refreshing...
after all, no Hamlet here, no Auld Lang Syne...

no... and all the better for it...
maybe it was a bad joke that the Germans posted on
the entrance of concentration camps:
it was... if concentration camps became
munition factories... but sieving sand:
in order to sieve more sand... to perform
Sisyphus tasks... while also exterminating the potential
workers? why not think of it as essentially failing:
when the essentiality of existence was lost?

but... translated, outside of the context
of a concentration camp? arbeit macht freit?
work set's you free... i can forget about my shortcomings...
my shortcomings are replaced with responsibilities...
i can forget about elaborating this tongue to my idiosyncrasy
and focus on formal communication...
i can live parallel lives...
i can have two lives...

as i have a prowess to wield of two tongues...
i can also... wield two lives....
and i don't even need to have a wife, to have children...
i can pass off being some loner since,
i hold a relationship with myself that grounds me
differently to others: others who are exposed
to their solitude, those who do not write,
who do not add form to their being,
who refuse to experience themselves with depth...
who switch off after their swift rather than switch on...

oh, these people are apparent... chamaleon me...
i turn into a right extrovert when a situation imposes itself
on me... yet writing is not a clear aspect of extroversion...
writing is an introvert's project...
yet how these two (aspects) are consolidated has
become... rather: a revelation to me...
i never put it into practice, mind you...
now that i have...

should all the final connections of significance die
and i'll be left alone...
just give me a "lesser" creature to bother me...
perhaps a dog... but more likely a cat...
i like the cats' take on placebo solipsism...

père corbeau...

   me, disavowing the chance of romance with a woman
over a desire to fulfill the role of steward,
sure, while i do my idiot writing on the side...
"idiot": it's never going to reach Fifty Shades of Grey
traction... then again:
i don't think i'll ever write something that exhausts me,
disappoints me... i'll just write what's made available...
what i want... come whoever may wish to come...
and a nice filter to boot... this will never be spoken
in either audio or a video format...
why bother unwanted attention,
made all the more accessible via audio or video?

what's it called? camaraderie? a select number of people
don't want something being spoilt,
by the intrusion of a greater number of people?
a loss of familiarity?
it's life... a phase of transition...
we're only taking a few people with us...
within the framework of memory, of a shared experience...
it's very much unlike a football match...
a football match consists of 11 players...
either side of the opposing teams...
the staff involved with the teams...
the stewards at the venue... blah blah blah...
very much unlike writing...

walk the moon - shut up & dance with me....
that sort of colt is not coming back....
even all those regretfully looking girls coming out of
clubs in Romford, stumbling, obviously not being
able to handle their drink...
oh, that guy is not coming back...
once upon a time taking a ******* a date to
the Tate Modern for an Edward Hopper exhibition,
then to the cinema to see a movie, Troy,
then some sushi... sending her off on the train
with my then friend messaging me
she said she felt butterflies in her stomach...
said "friend" later, years later, sending her a phallus-"selfie"...
ah.. RE-AH-LI-TY everyone's worse nightmare...
any psychotic's bread-and-butter...
so engrossed in it it would be impossible
to simply vacate it, leave it...
come the marriage with death... only then...

servus! neugefundenmann!
oh... hallo mich!

from: well... the only optical "hallucinations"
are the dreams i encounter,
through a "deaf" period of "hearing" /
but certainly not thinking this word up:
kij            (a wooden staff)...
  to... drinking a glass of bourbon,
becoming familiar with a taste of hazelnuts...
but more over...
                       what was that other taste...
no... strawberries once arose from
nicotine...
          ****... what was that taste...
           i need to remember it...
not chocolate, no...
    that wasn't it...
                        it wasn't even raw
vaginal petals of a *******
             searched by a covering of
skin cream...
                         there was something more...
bourbon can bellow at a tendency to
hover above the smoked salmon
taste of whiskey...
           the brothel sweetness simply,
overpowers...
                   taste hallucinations come so rarely...
the smoky scent of burning pine woods
in a land whereby pine trees are rare,
and birch trees are even rarer...
from a land where oak trees are deemed
sacred, like cows in India...
i know of one oak tree, that is deemed
sacred... on a mount,
where the Jewish cemetery sleeps its
staccato standstill...
  and the ancient oak, stand, protected...
the scent of burning auburn,
come late November and early December...
Poland...
   burning auburn, the reiterated color
of Baltic amber morphed into a perfume...
bourbon...
not hazelnut, but almost quiet akin...
there's this other flavor...
             only winter allows itself
the allowance of twice the value of
a stature of season...
in winter: the perfumes...
smokiness...
                     autumn the sickly
sweet season of decay...
   and spring... whereby color is by no
means a compensation of the perfumes...
     only summer...
  this... inferior Arabic child...
where the earth is scorched...
   and nothing smells of anything,
even if it could be something...
winter... hazy, smoky hazelnut cinnamon
ooze of pine, and in the distance...
oak...
              wizened man,
among the birches...
           took a hand, and placed
it onto ***** of his hand's
alone gesture to compensate
the magnetism: to make feel
of the harangue of earth:
lift my mind, to a spirit...
unto a tabernacle that encompasses
the final "banality" of a... heart!
    and give the winds my voice,
my thought the stones,
my dreams the stars,
      my memory the seas and
the deserts...
      my imagination the shadows
of all things bestowed before
the sun...
             decipher me...
      all in all dissected,
no more worse off...
   than a mere I...
            dissected as something
among the populace
worthy of a crucifiable contempt.

Healing the mind is a process
calming
We need to surround ourselves with beauty
In sight, sound
Tactile
feeling objects
Stress is unforgiving
unless you forgive it yourself
It's a practice
forest bathing
Ocean cleansing, constantly moving
Strawberries and hibiscus in the sunlight
Stroking the forehead of your child
gently
The smokiness of the molasses
The sweetness of the maple syrup
the purity of the water

.....