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Cunning Linguist Nov 2013
[Verse 1]
Monster sized swag; not modest bout my splendor
Marvel at the flag and I'm the ultimate avenger
Buck Rodgers, D-Bird yep I'm the number one contender,
So I gotta uphold this rep of bein uncontrollable
so I'll take the lead, I hold the world beneath my feet
I'm a fiend, elite
Haze so cloudy cause I be blowin Swisher Sweets
Drug addiction is my disease
It's my expertise
See here's the masterpiece:
Raps lobotomize
I'm traumatized since 1993

[Verse 2]
Victimized by the lies
of this trifilin enterprise
You can front but you can't hide
There's no fault behind your eyes
So I hope this insult will suffice
It should come as no surprise
A grin will spread across my face
From side to side
My ***** mouth will mesmerize
hypnotized, memorize
the words that escape my lips
I'm a degenerate unabridged uncut
You're a ******* ****
Go hang yourself from a bridge
Here's a rope, I hope you choke

******* ******* smoochie smoochie
Only chains you got is Gucci
Y’all basic brothers rep that set
But fake like that 2chi

[Verse 3]
man I get so high,
Now watch me get higher
Watch me take flight
As my wings soar skyward
You know I'ma fighter
So watch me take my place
As I eat this rap game up
and then spit it in your face
Now pass me a lighter
see me rollin while I bake
I mean I'm not a pastry maker,
but I still bake for the sake
My rhymes are so ill
They're gonna make you sick
I be tweetin on my twitter
While Betty Crocker ***** my ****, uh

[Verse 4]
Reid between the lines son and please proceed with caution
Alien splittin kilos, I be one tweaked ****** martian
I'm five steps ahead and these haters ****** forfeit
You four feet tall and I'm so high I'm in ****** orbit
Make these snitches sleep with fishes
How ****** vicious spittin mischief
****** trippin out these hypocrites
Dishin out these disses which
Bein inconsiderate
in this fast paced game of chase
But if I wanted to catch your drama
I'd just go check my facebook page *****
"Reid between the lines son.." Is a double entendre, my name is Reid so it's saying I'm between lines of snorting *insert illicit substance* and read between the lines. Buck Rodgers and D-Bird are a couple rap aliases from in the day.
Stephan Cotton May 2017
Another shift, another day, Another buck to spend or save
A million riders, maybe more, delivered to their office door
Or maybe warehouse maybe store.
Or church or shul or city school, right on time as a rule.

Clickety, clackety, clickety, clee,
I am New York, the City’s me
Come let me ride you on my knee
From Coney Isle to Pelham Bay
From Bronx to Queens eight times a day.

Ride my trains, New Yorkers do
And you’ll learn a thing or two
About the City up above, the one some hate, the one some love.
On the street they work like elves
Down below they’re just themselves.

Through summer’s heat they still submerge,
Tempers held (though always on the verge),
They push, they shove – just like above –
The crowds will jostle, then finally merge.

Downtown to work and then back to sleep
They travel just like farm-herded sheep.
In through this gate and out the other,
Give up a seat to a child and mother,
Just don’t sit too close to that unruly creep!

With these crowds huddled near
Just ride my trains with open ear,
There’s lots of tales for you to hear.


Dis stop is 86th Street, change for da numbah 4 and 5 trains.  Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.   77th Street is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     I’m Doctor Z, Doctor Z are me
     I’ll fix your face or the visit’s free.
     Plastic surgery, nips and tucks
     You’ll be looking like a million bucks.

     Looka those pitchas, ain’t they hot?
     You’ll look good, too, like as not!
     Just call my numbah, free of toll
     Why should you look like an ugly troll?

     You’ll be lookin good like a rapster
     Folks start stealing your tunes on Napster
     Guys’ll love ya, dig your face
     Why keep lookin like sucha disgrace?

     Call me up, you’re glad you did
     Ugly skin you’ll soon be rid.
     Amex, Visa, Mastercard,
     Payment plans that ain’t so hard.

     So don’t forget, pick up that phone
     Soon’s you get yourself back home.
     I’ll have you looking good, one, two three
     Or else my name ain’t Doctor Z.


Dis stop is 77th Street, 68th Street Huntah College is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     It was a limo, now it’s the train;
     Tomorrow’s sunshine, but now it’s rain.
     The market’s mine, for taking and giving
     It’s the way I earn my living.

     Today’s losses, last week’s gain.
     A day of pleasure, months of pain.
     We sold the puts and bought the calls;
     We loaded up on each and all.

     I’ve seen it all, from Fear to Greed,
     Good motivators, they are, both.
     The fundamentals I try to heed
     Run your gains and avoid big loss.

     Rates are down, I bought the banks
     For easy credit, they should give thanks.
     Goldman, Citi, even Chase
     Why are they still in their malaise?

     “The techs are drek,” I heard him say
     But bought more of them, anyway.
     I rode the bull, I’ll tame the bear
     I’ll scream and curse and pull my hair.

     So why continue though I’m such a ****?
     I’ll cut my loss if I find honest work.



Dis is 68th Street Huntah College, 59th Street is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     He rides the train from near to far,
     In and out of every car.
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Some folks buy them, most do not,
     Are they stolen, are they hot?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”

     Who would by them, even a buck?
     What’re the odds they’re dead as a duck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Why not the Lotto, try your luck,
     Or are you gonna be this guy’s schmuck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”


Dis is 59th Street, change for de 4 and 5 Express and for de N and de R, use yer Metrocard at sixty toid street for da F train.  51st Street is next. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     “Dat guy kips ****** wit me, Wass he
     tink, I got time for dat ****?  Man, I
     got my wuk to do, I ain gona put
     up with him
     no more.”

          “I don’t know what to tell this dude. Like,
          I really dig him but
          ***?  No way.  And
          He’s getting all too smoochie face.”

     “Right on, bro, slap dat fool up
     side his head, he leave you lone.”

          “Whoa, send him my way.  When’s the last
          time I got laid?  I’m way ready.”

          “Oh, Suzie,..”


Dis is fifty foist Street, 42nd Street Grand Central is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.



     Abogados es su amigos, do you believe the sign?
     Are they really a friend of mine?
     Find your lawyer on the train
     He’ll sue if the docs ***** up your brain.

     Pick a lawyer from this ad
     (I’m sure that you’ll be really glad)
     You’ll get a lawyer for your suit,
     Mean and nasty, not so cute.

     Call to live in this great nation
     1-800-IMMIGRATION.
     Or if your bills got you in a rut
     1-800-BANK-RUPT.

     We’re just three guys from Flatbush, Queens
     Who’ll sue that ******* out of his jeans.
     Mama’s proud when she rides this train
     To see my sign making so much rain.

     No SEC no corporations
     We can’t find the United Nations.
     Just give us torts and auto wrecks
     And clients with braces on their necks.

     Hurting when you do your chores?
     There’s money in that back of yours.
     Let us be your friend in courts
     Call 1-800-SUE 4 TORTS.


Dis is 42nd Street, Grand Central, change for the 4, 5 and 7 trains. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Toity toid is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


They say there’s sev’ral million a day
From out in the ‘burbs, they pass this way.
Most come to work, some for to play
They all want to talk, with little to say.

Bumping and shoving, knocking folks down
A million people running around.
The hustle, the bustle the noise that’s so loud
Get me far from this madding crowd.

“We can be shopping instead of just stopping
And onto the next outbound train we go hopping.
Hey, it’s a feel that that guy’s a-copping!”

They want gourmet food, from steaks down to greens
Or neckties and suits, or casual jeans,
It’s not simply newspapers and magazines
For old people, young people, even for teens.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Thoidy toid Street, twenty eight is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “So what’s the backup plan if
     He doesn’t get into Trevor Day?
     I know your
     heart’s set on it, but we’ve only
     got so many strings we
     can pull, and we can’t donate a
     ******* building.”

           “Hooda believed me if I tolja the Mets
          would sail tru and the Yanks get dere
          by da skinna dere nuts?
          I doan believe it myself.  Allya
          Gotta do is keep O’Neil playin hoit
          And keep Jeter off his game an
          We’ll killum.

               “My sistah tell me she be yo *****.  I tellya I cut you up if you
                ****** wid her, I be yo ***** and donchu fuggedit.”

     “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.
     And we can just **** good and
     Well find some more strings to pull!”

          “Big fuggin chance.  Wadder ya’ smokin?”

               “Yo sitah she ain my *****, you be my *****.  I doan be ******
                wid yo sistah.  You tell her she doan be goin round tellin folks
                dat ****.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Twenty eight Street, twenty toid is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     Do you speak Russian, French or Greek,
     We’ll assimilate you in a week.
     If Chinese is your native tongue
     You’ll speak good English from day one.

     Morning, noon, evening classes
     Part or full time, lads and lasses.
     You’ll be sounding like the masses
     With word and phrase that won’t abash us.

     Language is our stock in trade
     For us it’s how our living’s made.
     We’ll put you in a class tonight
     Soon your English’ll be out of sight.

     If you’re from Japan or Spain
     Basque or Polish, even Dane,
     Our courses put you in the main
     Stream without any need for pain.

     We’ll teach you all the latest idioms
     You’ll be speaking with perfidium.
     We’ll give you lots of proper grammar
     Traded for that sickle and hammer.

     Are you Italian, Deutsch or Swiss?
     With our classes you can’t miss
     The homogeneous amalgamation
     Of this sanitized Starbucks nation.


Dis is Twenty toid Street, 14th Street Union Square is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “Ladies and Gentlemen, I hate to bother you
     But things are bleak of late.
     I had a job and housing, too
     Before my little quirk of fate.”

     “There came a day, not long ago,
     When to my job I came.
     They handed me a pink slip, though,
     And ev’n misspelled my name.”

     “We’ve got three kids, my wife and me.
     We’re bringing them up right.
     They’re still in school from eight to three
     With homework every night.”

     “I won’t let them see me begging here,
     They think I go to work.
     Still to that job I held so dear
     Until fate’s awful quirk.”

     “So help us now, a little, please
     A quarter, dime (or dollar still better),
     It’ll go so far to help to ease
     The chill of this cold winter weather.”

     “I’ll walk the car now, hat in hand
     I do so hope you understand
     I’m really a proud, hard working man
     Whose life just slipped out of its plan.”

     “I thank you, you’ve all been oh so grand.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is 14th Street, Union Square, change for da 4 and 5 Express, the N and the R.   Astor Place is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The hours are long, the pay’s no good
     I’m far from home and neighborhood.
     All day I work at Astor Place
     With sunshine never on my face.
     Candy bar a dollar, a soda more
     A magazine’s a decent score.
     Selling papers was the game
     But at two bits the Post’s to blame
     For adding hours to my long day.
     All the more work to save
     Tuition for that son of mine: that tall,
     Strong, handsome, American son


Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Yer at Astah Place, Bleekah Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     Summer subway’s always hot, AC’s busted, like as not
     Tracks are bumpy, springs are shot ‘tween the cars they’re smoking
     ***.

     To catch the car you gotta run they squeeze you in with everyone
     Just hope no body’s got a gun 'cause getting there is half the fun.

     Packed in this car we’re awful tight seems this way both day and
     night.
     And then some guys will start a fight.  Subway ride’s a real delight.

     Danger! Keep out! Rodenticide! I read while waiting for a ride.
     This is a warning I have to chide:  
     I’m very likely to walk downtown, but I’d never do it Underground.

     Took the Downtown by mistake.  Please, conductor, hit the brake!
     Got an uptown date to make, God only knows how long I’ll take.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Bleekah Street, Spring Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The trains come through the station here,
     The racket’s music to my ear.
  &nbs
Images, overheard (and imagined) conversations.  @2003
raen Apr 2012
You are my sun, the planets and the asteroids in between,
actually, make that the energy that embraces the sun,
the elements and trace elements that make up each planet...

(Oh, my stars!)

You are each perfect petal that unfurls ever so slowly in the morning light,
actually, make that the light that kisses each dew drop which
awakes each petal with that sweet kiss...

(Oh, blush, my buzzing bee!)

You are that raindrop that refreshes my parched soul that's stranded in a desert,
actually, make that the mirage that proves to be an oasis
as my eyes widen in wonderment with the reality of You.

(Oh, shucks, my sweet breath!)

You are my golden compass whenever I get lost in the wilderness,
actually, I wouldn't mind getting lost, if it means
that I get lost in your soulful, beautiful eyes Forever

(Oh, you cheeseball, you!!)

You are the chocolate ganache frosting on that chocolate cake,
actually, you are the powdered sugar on my honey-dipped doughnut
that brushes my lips, the perfect complement for hot, hot coffee

(Oh, honey bun!!)

You are the--

Sweetcakes??

You are the freshly ground pepper that dusts softly on my carbonara, I'm just

Ahem!!!!

You are the freshly ground pepper that dusts softly on my carbonara,
actually it would be bland and incomplete without you and---

Hey, babe!

huh?!

I'm on dense mode right now, what are you really trying to say?
Come on, spill it, I NEVER hear it from you...



Ummm, ummm...I...I...

I mean, I--


Out with it, come on!! You can do it---"I...."

Hoo! Ok, I...

I can do this---

I...

(Note to self: This is IT!!!!!)

I--

Yesss...?!!

I
am
    the empty, wanting glass and you are the refreshing drink that fills me up,
actually,--

~BOINKKKKKkkK~ !! I'm walking away now!!
Geez, if you can't say IT without all the Fluffy, duffy, Fluff,
see me walking away for now...I need the Skinny, the skeleton!
Sometimes one just needs to Hear it, you know?!
Oh, and I love you,in case you didn't know...but see me walk!


Hey, honey bunny, smoochie sweetie pie?

...still walking away~~~~

I...

huff, huff, huff~~

I am walking towards you...

Huff, puff, puff and hufff~! (note to self: Walk on, walk on...)

I said I'm walking towards you...

~bump~!

and

I...
   Love
         You.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i always wondered what
je ne sais pas might sound like in german...
   ah, **** it, let's put
this prosthetic limb together,
you never know, a siamese twin
might just pop out to steal the show...
ich      (je ne sais.... ah.. ha ha ha!
i was thinking of je ne sais qua...
ok ok... je ne sais quoi, quo-oh-e...
    e. e. cummings, come ere!
fiddle this violin to a fine tuning
that a deaf man might 'ear)...
and when language does indeed
as diabolical as this, you really should
stop using Poles as antibiotics to
German then Islamic fascism...
or kidding yourself that it's really
just a pardonable dream you're having...
so the prosthetic limb is coming...
  no point schmoozing me with
anything else... oh please please:
just dance the one legged tango a while
longer, i'm working on it... honest...
  look here... je, ich
   ne, nein, nein-stimme... no steam:
bog **** choo choo!
     meaner: neinschtimme -
   kinder dicht... why would i say kid-tight?
well... ballerinas begin their careers
at an early age... maybe that's why...
   otherwise? dunno...
let's feed this alcoholic cold-sweat -
finding the tutti-frutti hyper-delusion,
trying to say much more than the sound
of knocking on a door can ever provide...
that's one way to go about it, for sure...
and every part of me wants to be a serious
novelist, and be sober, and chop wood,
but then every other part of me
wants the poetry, and the drinking,
    and the scarcity of the adventure...
  to feel, having only slaughtered one pig,
that i was able to feed a billion ching chongs
in Beijing...
           china... ching chong...
a focus on the prefix ch, and the suffix cha cha cha?
no? different joke, on a different continent...
   i swear there was this guy from Bethlehem
who also made the same conclusion...
     can't remember his name...
you know, like: two fish three loafs of bread,
you can satiate a coliseum...
   ah! delirium! that's what alcoholics experience
sometimes... i love delirium...
      it just shows you, that if you're really
serious, you can experience many more facets of
alcoholism...
    hidden gems... and if you're really
hot-headed, have enough crassness about
to write about it...
    delirium... when other drugs have the after-effects
of paranoia, alcohol prescribes you delirium...
   in polish slang also called a delirka...
   but i'm not drinking purple denaturat /
ethynol substitute to chanel no. cinq...
    or should i say: çank?  yep, that ship sank
once it gave a smoochie to an ice-berg...
                                 hail Titanic! ave Titanus!
but i really was trying to find
je ne sais quoi (qua... ******* French,
excessive spelling and a gob that later
says much more throng... and that nasal
cavity needs fixing, seriously -
  but they write so beautifully,
and later slobber it with their local...
or should i say: locál! or perhaps: locállé?!
depends how you make do
with a syllable dissection) -
so how would it go? the je ne sais quoi in
Swabian?
   ich tun nicht was kennt...
              well... there are worse things than
mutilating a language...
      you could do worse, like mutilate a body...
   like in that film...
   with colonel sisi... the last king of scotland...
ah, what's his name? that guy
reminding me to never travel to uganda?
    yeah, had a wife, she cheated on him,
so he cut off her legs and arms, and sewed them
back onto her torso so she really ended up
with a confused pair of cranium hemispheres...
    and i'm the mad one...
just because i drink and have a vocabulary
equivalent of diarrhoea...
       but, so it goes...
   i'll never say the correct way of saying
je ne sais quoi in Swabian... because je ne sais quoi
is a complete package... like faux pas is
a complete package, like carpe diem is a complete
package... like coup d'état is a complete
package... like déjà vu is a complete package...
    there's absolutely no way to unravel it
or furthermore: translate it...
      a German once complimented my language
on the cushion-like effect of the word
  kurva...  *****... he loved the trilled -r-
and the waterfall of -va / wa wa... va to english speakers;
and so he did, relieve himself of stress
saying the word... and with such malice as
to no hurt anyone... and what's happening in
english? social-cool, prescriptive dyslexia...
        one step away from really, i mean
really being o.k. with watching **** and all
forms of perversity, and not o.k. with seeing
the correct spelling of the word ****...
      yes... mm... so ******* agonising seeing
a correct spelling...
                                   i better gouge my eyes
out having seen that....
or that case of ultra-proximity...
     kręt                        vs.      skręt...
kręt (a pathological liar, on a building site in
England usually called a Romanian) -
skręt? a rollie... a cigarette, you know the type,
you buy the tobacco, you buy the papers,
you buy the filter... and you actually roll
a cigarette... a variation of the word skew,
i'm sure... kręt does actually mean a meddler...
a swinddler...  and if you having been exposed
to the reality of a construction site in england...
you should see the ******* that's written
in the toilets...
     i really shouldn't have gone to university,
i wasted my degree in chemistry to merely drink...
**** good wine though, home made juice...
   hyper! hyper! hyper-ventilating on the silence
that's gathering around me...
  and if you ever spotted a lightning bolt
and never heard a thunder... you're bound
to be as itchy as me -
and by the way: the karma term for a German
in Poland is: schwab - or szwab...
              of shvab... it's getting dizzy... pfoo...
bilinguals can't be proud polymaths...
         i'm seeing alternative spelling in different
linguistic geo-political zones.
Harmony Sapphire Sep 2015
I always respected my cat as a person.
Getting another cat made the situation worsen.
I love him but I can't trust him anymore.
I would keep him if the space where we reside had more.
It's sad but I guess violence ends most relationships.
He bites too hard not playful nips.
Cats are like people when they become rejected or replaced they become stalkers lurking in the hall waiting outside your door waiting to cat fight who stole away your attention.
Sorry we can no longer share affection.
I guess he is not the cuddle kiss on the lips & give a little smoochie to anymore.
He is the feed me & leave me alone kind of pet.
Who don't play well with others at all.
I was just trying to give him a friend & then he became the enemy.
© Harmony Sapphire.All rights reserved.
jeffrey robin Jan 2015
^
(<^>)
o
0         0
|
|
/       \

~~~~~~~

My love  

                          My                Love

                                 •  •
••                             • •

Winds
           (      They blow      )

In the child night

//

You can

Hear them             Cryin

//:://

Me and my love

We know

We go to find them

And bring them home

••

We are STRENGTH

together we are FAMILY

we are GOD INCARNATE

the sacred sense of UNITY

//0//

Me and my love are LOVE

in all it's PURITY

X

Me and my love

X

You too can escape

From prison puerile puberty

Into the LIGHT of the TRUE SONG

that carries the human race

To the HOLY MOUNTAIN

where the LAW is written

In the HEART of all CREATION

ETERNALLY

••

Love !!!!

Free from poet pandering

From the feelie - touchie - smoochie

Needy Greedy foolishness

Of JUST US TWO TOGETHER

DEATH !

Into the realm of HUMANITY

To become A PART OF LIFE ITSELF !

to be with ALL OF OTHERNESS

To be with

ME

//:::://

Me and my love

Me and my love

••

Here before the earth was here

Here when earth itself is gone



Here before love was here

///

Love was created just for us

ME AND MY LOVE
Poolza Aug 2019
Hey there cutie
You owe me a smoochie
LeRoy Williams Jun 2019
Call me ******* to your mother because I cuh-cuh-couldn't feel the trembling heat reaking havok on the in thigh stubble. Ow! **** sorry stub my toe. I'm moving slow enough to double dutch with a couple couple cookie crisp. Ishy on the in dispute. Grarly upon the laudry booth smoochie smooching on farting fairies flarping from the ex-haust.
Sorry my brain feels soft ffrom the rock salt. Hoochie snoochie snooting snorks slimey nap-cloth. Froze from the several palms second had palsy freezing in the eager eggnog. Ice over sire's searing sultry silken sick souly sullen franklin flame Bob. Billy will wally dilly Dally caught a fifty fatty rattle ****** daddy daddy daddy daddy, Fat Father igloos freak me father freak me father freak me father Im chuching my maugwa. Ma saws my mucho munched muddy crusty killer toes rain, *****? Are you hearing me gravel up your ****** hairs hurting from the rusty ****** clamps. I'm krusty crab freaking funk got me wondering why? okay wize guy wicked wonder wall watch my quest for questioning Ghostface Killah. I'm Slaid Cosby I ****** your daugher younger than the fury from you first tooth.
I wish you spat my drizzle from the furry foster the kids frontporch pistol grip.

Hop scotch?
Poolza Sep 2019
You owe me kiss kiss smooch smooch smoochie
Don't want a Gucci
a smoochie
will do for me
well,
two or three snuggles
one or two kisses
and
a few cuddles
wouldn't go amiss.
This is letter number 37 today!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022
Pre-scriptum (and yes, no italics this time round):

i was never going to do this day any justice by writing about
it, not in a hundred years, after all: i was going to write about my experiences prior to actual events external of me: not out of egoism or for that matter: a solipsism; i'm just not the type of "poet" akin to a Richard Blanco: the inaugural poet for Barack Obama's second term in office: i just can't bring myself to that Atlas' pose with a pen: perhaps i would require too much paper, but to stand there: like the inaugural poet does and speak so much mumbo-jumbo is... it's not beneath me, it's above me... i'm the "poet" of the Coliseum, i'm the "poet" of brothels and the "poet" of madness and the "poet" of shadows and the night, of the moon and of the forests, i'm the "poet" of aloneness, i'm a "poet" of the philosophers (perhaps a poet-philosopher - a vain title, i know), i'm not an oratory "poet", i'm the "poet" of the old tradition who sometimes smiles and giggles when he finds: rather than brings himself to rhyme! i already drafted something before writing this, i'm currently skim-reading it and trying to make it somewhat salvageable... i doubt i will find anything worth salvaging: that day (3 days have past) will remain a Titanic at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean for me... and so it should be... not that i haven't made the already necessary reflections: well... they were the reflexive-reflections not something i would give much thought to, for a reflection-proper: i absorbed too much on the day to be so generous... but i did the smartest thing imaginable: i took crux-photographs... pivotal pictures from the day... and catalogued them here: https://bit.ly/3d1Tto2...

i have to actually write a schematic if my approach to this is to make any sense: of course i will also interpolate the schematic, jumping from one "event" to another, the schematic is as follows:

(a) babysitting Malvina

                                  (b) West Ham vs. Steaua București
                                      at the London Stadium

(c) the brothel

                                    (d) Afghan "Jamie"
                                          and his gift and everything after...

question? i'm asking myself this... whether to abide
by the schematic linearly a > b > c < d
or to simply (as i already referenced) juxtapose?
interpolate? i.e. a = b = c = d
                    the latter option seems more viable...
i don't like cascading narratives...
for me there's no river of narration: there's the wrathful
sea of narration... water comes all at once: water doesn't
flow: it bashes and sieges the land: esp. the lands
of islands... water, water everywhere:
and not a drop to drink... i'm not going to quote
the poet who wrote those lines...
i'll treat this as a puzzle-box... being a huge fan of
the Hellraiser "franchise" it would be wrong not to...
puzzles... i imagine that if i were good at crosswords
i wouldn't be able to write so fluidly...
i prefer misnomers to synonyms: but that's just me...

when will i begin?! i'm tired of explaining myself...
it will come of its own accord...

ah! first things first...
    QUEEN and KING...
                          so i'm guessing that when the next
international matches are played and
the national anthem is sang... it won't be women singing:
but men... for the simple reason that
women can allocate a higher pitch to:
how does the word queen look like, when sung
by a professional?
                      god save the: queēn!
                                i would have applied the acute diacritical
marker, i.e. queén...
i'd agree with either since the crescendo of the anthem
comes with the last word: either queen of king...
in the case of queen: que-eeeeeeeeeeeeee(n)
the N is there: but the fact that the vowel extended
takes so much breath away... the singer of the anthem
might as well treat the N as an apostrophe
i.e. quee'                    and only women can reach that
pitch of song...
it's a lot different with KING...
          god save the: kíng vs. kīng... since?
well... you need a baritone to sing the word king to
a prolonged crescendo... kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing
    and like the N on the end of quee-n
                              the -ng are meshed: strangely...
but not so strangely...
              i KONG KY crystals...
  (that's KY of: IGREK: a hollowed out y-why,
KY not KI not KE not cat not queue: not question
of qwhestion, that would be a Welsh spelling)...

the day started well enough, the manicurist / pedicurist
was supposed to come a day prior
to sort of mother's nails out... she was was supposed
to come with her baby daughter a day earlier,
it was supposed to be a Wednesday...
apparently the little rascal was giving her trouble
when she tried to attend to other customers:
she would ignore her mother's work,
she would hang around her mother... pull her trousers
(or t-shirt) making it near impossible for her mother
to do her work: even on that fateful day, that was
a a Thursday, she was sceptical about whether she would
be able to do both my mother's hands and legs...

now, i imagine that having children of my own would
decrease my hormonal level of testosterone
(talk about a Chemical Circus, psychiatrists still talk
on chemical grounds when it comes to psychiatric
disorders: the ancient "chemical imbalance" in the brain...
these supposed "atheists" don't even acknowledge
the fact tat the "soul" is chemistry-free,
there's no chemical imbalance: but they still pump
the sufferer of "said" ailment with an approach
that's post-experimental, i.e. a failure) -
no one talks about a hormonal imbalance...
me + children? i'm fine with that: as long as they're not
my own... with the children of strangers i get to
keep my Abrahamic integrity: i invest in the moment
rather than some concern for lineage:
what matters is the child in the moment i'm sharing
the moment with it...

so? i knew there was only one approach for the girl's mother
to do her job... do both hands and feet...
i needed to exhaust the child...
last time i saw her she wasn't walking: she wasn't speaking...
this time i upped my approach to the tender
"fat-thumb"... i put on Disney's Alice in Wonderland...
a somewhat distraction... then? i watched
as she found it fascinating to play with my cats' toys...
ugh: my cats have become terribly existential,
they are no longer fascinated by toys...
they're more fascinated with what i'm fascinated:
i.e. peering at "nothing": staging a coup of "nothingness",
a coup of "nothingness" and of space and of time...
but this BOBAS (the ****** equivalent of the Italian
BAMBINO) took to the cats' toys...

at first she was throwing the toys in the air,
while i was catching them...
each time i didn't catch the toy / ball i heard
the angels sing: no... i didn't: the time i heard angels
(descending?) sing (ascending?) i was terrified...
i just heard the honey trickle of a child giggling...
at first she was shy... pointing out that i had a beard...
she liked my beard... last time she was tugging on it
trying to conjure up a teddy-bear from it...
i like women who have an insatiable urge to pull
on my beard...
but that was the last time i saw Malvina...
this time round she was throwing cats' ***** into
the air and i was catching them... snap-reflexes...
i missed one or two throws: i pretended to juggle...
she giggled and ran back to her mother
to express her joy: this man is playing with me...

man: not boy...
we did that for a while... later we moved to a different
game... we were throwing ***** up the stairs
and watching the ***** roll back down...
then? we sat at the (insert the proper noun,
it's not a table) and i taught her the "art" of spinning
the *****... then i "taught" her the "art" of:
you know... ***** can be thrown... but they
can also be rolled... so we were playing a game
of rolling the *****... rather than throwing them...
the expressions on her face were so intense...
i couldn't ask her why: unlike the prostitutes
in the brothel when asking me: why is your stare
so intense?! WHY NOT?!
you want me to talk?! i'm not bringing our nakedness
into the equation: i'm not going to talk
when we're naked! we talk as if blind people
seeing Braille rather than touching it!

i was just about to offer her some makeshift
Black Forest Gateaux sponge of a "muffin" when
her mother looked up, the little, dearest babe climbed
into a cocoon of pillows and started indicating that:
there has been enough excitement worth of a day's
worth of today... she snuggled up in that cocoon
of pillows... picked up her "smoochie": sucker?
and started giving me the lazy eyes...
i picked up a cover and laid it across her...
the light from living-room was glaring...
i joked: maybe if i put these (here) sunglasses
on your pretty petite visage will you fall asleep?
she managed the joke for about 10 minutes
before pulling them from her face...and... naturally...
as any child exhausted by play could: COULD tell you...
play is exhausting: esp. when playing with someone
who's experimenting on you psychologically...
from throwing *****, to spinning *****...
to rolling *****...
she couldn't have cared to *****' worth of what was
Alice in Wonderland about...

i don't think i will ever forget those cheeky ******
expressions... akin to: we were rolling the *****
across from each other (pretend chess)...
one ball went missing... i was lazy enough to keep
it missing... she grunted: protested!
exactly! we were playing with three *****!
i had to retract my "misguidance"...
well... if she wanted to change of stamina from
throwing them and me catching them...
to now rolling them... we needed all three!
when we were throwing the ***** up the stairs...
what a clever little creature...
she had her favourite coloured ball...
she was throwing a purple ball...
i had to throw the orange coloured ball...
she shared the "adventure"... the game...
but it had to be so... her consciousness already
recognised anti-ghosts of both form and colour...

why would i be bitter?
wouldn't i want children? me and the children
of strangers... sure as **** i wouldn't be trying to teach
them any "pronoun muddles" of the muddy waters
of: if the old COMMUNISTS came in contact with
the "communists of the west"? they'd be GULAG FEED...
some people become fathers and mothers
and are underserving of such roles...
people like me never became fathers simply because:
the would-be mothers are undeserving to
have children that could be fathered by people like me...
it's a calculated truth...
how much ******* money do you need
before the money is only earned in order
to be ****** away by a woman?!
i earn enough to keep myself content!
once a single man reaches this zenith: it's hardly worthwhile
to sink to a nadir of expenditure...
you can always find some stranger's baby to babysit...
then again: not always...
i'm just lucky that i have found my Bambino....

at some point some journalistic Da-Sein started trickling
in: into the household while i was entertaining
a baby: who finally managed to become lullabied
to a sleep that lasted well over one, and half an hour,
even my mother exclaimed: how did you manage it?!
i just replied: i was just being myself...

the news came along the lines of: she sovereign
is peaceful, she's gladly on her "death bed"...
no mention of "death" though...
but when the news increased in detail:
the whole family was to be made full attendance of:
(what poet ever wrote about the death
of Julius Caesar? no one... all of a "sudden":
then, ****! like the "hidden" emergence of the smoke
of history from the fire that was, the man
who uttered the word: alea iacta est -
none on the day of the event... most poets were
busy with their "poetic" *******...
few were scheming the full depth of womanhood,
from baby, to queen and to a *****)

i finally uttered my fiery tongue:
i will give her until tomorrow...
i even said: i hope he suffers the anti-illness of death
prior to the match starting, the match i'm working
a shift on...
she has until tomorrow to back her bag of bones
and flesh and her detailed imprint on the psyche...
until tomorrow: but i'm hopeful too:
that the match will be cancelled...
alas!
  i went to the shift: there was a buzzword in the winds
congregating around the Coliseum:
but the buzzword wasn't either Elizabeth or Queen...
for the first time i experienced the conquest
of veneer: which came days later...
because on the day? i was injected
with an anaesthetic of: what the public is all about...

sure... it looks pretty: "just about now": the veneer
of a caring people... hmm! "caring"...
i pledged two promises in my lifetime, in secret...
the first to Jeff Hanneman: when i was attempting to
grow my hair long in high-school...
before the poster of the band Slayer: i pledged:
i will grow my hair long...
and i did... i remember being fat, un-liked:
a complete nerd: a goof in high-school...
prior to one summer with my grandfather...
shedding weight... growing my hair long...
i was invisible to the girls in the school...

    then one summer i had enough length in my hair
to tie a pony tail... lost enough of weight...
wow! i suddenly became "visible" to the girls...
i paid no attention... i ended up dating the new-comer
Aussie chick... the most popular girl in school...
sure... it took us over a year of friendly courting
me taking her on one of the most glorious dates:
gallery, cinema, restaurant: i paid for all of it...
when *** was *** and man was man
and woman was woman...
all the girls that ignored me prior
were facing an abomination:
a boy with a French braid hair-do...
                        i had this one mantra in my mind:
well! if you didn't show me any interest prior?
why should i show you ny interest now?!

i'm still living in the: REITERATION period
of my life... i still have about 10 years left...
i can wreck a lot of havoc in those ten years waiting
for me... and i will... i will...
i'll **** all the prostitutes in one brothel before having
to move onto the next brothel... and when i ****
all the prostitutes in that second brothel:
i'll move onto the third! and so on, and so on...
all the while enjoying babysitting children
and listening to Crusader song...

i am: done... playing "nice"... nice is no quest for me...
for the stern heart of stone and an arm
cast(e) from an iron grip...

it was all a veneer though... if you attended the football
match between West Ham and that team from Bucharest...
you would have known that: the public?
paid no respect to the passing sovereign:
the football match was more important!
animals! ******* animals!

something else...
                  prior: much prior...
it amazed me... i asked the management team:
so... the usual per se of the football match advent will
be obstructed? when the Coliseum started playing
Debussy and Sartre... i knew...
we opened the gates for the public at 18:30 the supposed
hour of her passing...
so the match would have to go on...

i pledged her a secret allegiance...
i will not succumb to my suicidal thinking until
you die... me?! i want to earn and spend
banknotes with your son's visage on them!
i'm going to outlive you: you HAG!
i had to! i promised Jeff Hanneman my long hair...
i promised ol' Lizzie my life!
i have kept my promise:
i'm alive... she's "now" dead...
thankfully i didn't make such promises on
a promise she might have known of...
i made these promise "unto" her:
but? mostly unto myself...

if the people of England who witnessed the spectacle could
have witnessed the fans of West Ham
on the day of the passing...
they weren't the usual season ticket holders...
absolute animals: paupers! serf! ******* imbeciles!
i spotted one usual season ticket holder
among them: rabble...
we hugged... but the others?! ****-soaked jeans...
oh, **** me: your queen just died
and you're still here chanting for your
football team?! you, *******, PEASANTS!

give me a ******* OAR! give me a ******* KITE!
you, ******* ZOMBIES!
that's why i was given an anaesthetic...
i was given one... at one point
i was telling this ******* TURNIP... this...
BEETROOT of a "man":
you swear at me, one more (*******) time...
and i'll have to ejected!
not today, "mate"... you don't get that (*******)
luxury...

sure... sure... as if people ever cared...
i was bitten by a "tarantula" watching the public
reaction: absolutely no reaction...

the light of the moon is closest to the "heart"
of the shadow come the time of the harvest of the seasons:
come Autumn and the time of Winter:
the brightest shadows are cast upon this
glory of earth...

i was due a proper celebration...
i had to summon a libido of grief...
from a shift at the London Stadium i had to make my way
back into Essex
and visit a brothel: i wasn't expecting to wait for
an hour though: although an hour i waited...
i entertained the Madame
with some Red Hot Chili Peppers....
apparently i have a good taste in music...

brothel, the usual ****?
i'm not going to go into any details:
Duke of Sussex has me covered...
the whinging ginger **** that he is...
BALDY-BALSO!...
ooh! slapper-'ed!
    
    of course i went to the brothel!
i had my **** ****** akin to being
circumcised! i "thought":
now's the time for three-*******'s worth of
feels!
i waited for an hour...
once the hour was "gone"
an Afghan "Jamie" emerged with
a pocket full of marijuana...
i started sniffing the bud like a dog...

oomph: oomph!
what sweetness of an Afghan..
who isn't selling you cut-off ******* of
Jamaican *******...
you just know:
an Afghan sells you marihuana...
he's also selling you poppy milk...
but at least he's not selling you:
******* SAWDUST...
fibreglass from the Vietnamese cookie-cutters...
i got home and drank a little more...
then rolled my a fatty... smoked it in the garden...
and: as usual, the mixture of alcohol and marijuana
hit me like a falling mountain...
the last time i smoked was... ooh...
well over 10 years ago...
  and i'm saying: if an Afghan brings you marihuana:
or rather...
i had to waited for that ****** hour while
all the girls were busy...
i asked the Madame if i could go out for a cigarette...
standing outside: for me, standing casually outside
a brothel is like me standing casually outside a pub...
aha! here we go! one scuttling rat...
i saw him trying to leave in the corner of my eye...
i saw him open the entrance door and then
cower and go back in...
                  English, obviously:
those Victorian "sentiments" concerning sexuality
are: ******* prosaic on someone born
on the continent... i was going to say: hey, mate...
don't be coy, alright? you're not a woman...
i think what put him off was that as he was leaving
the brothel he heard my choice of music
blasting in the waiting room...
he must have been like: "what?! no Romanian
giddy / ****** pop-rap?! who put this music on?!"
he finally made it out in one piece or another...
trying to avert me gazing at him...

oh! such shame! such shame! such terrible shame!
i walked back in and that's when i met
my Afghan "Jamie"... weird name for an Afghan,
isn't it? i thought... long hair... the complete ******
look...
i'm telling "you": if an Afghan offers you marihuana?
you ******* take it...
Afghans are not Jamaicans or any of those little
Vietnamese ****** that mix fibreglass with the "herb"...
the last time i smoked marijuana this good
i was smoking it in Amsterdam...
i was slightly drunk: sexually emptied / satisfied...
the queen just died... i had to...

lo and behold! no paranoia! nothing!
all the best grooves... i was falling asleep in a transcendent
cocoon of my own self:
grinning that creature in Apex Twin's video:
Window-Licker (nice term, for a ******)...
when i was younger i would use the cognitive-whirlwind
in my head to write something:
i'm older, a bit less stupid... i was like:
oh no no... no writing... i'm taking to the "surf":
i'm going to be grinning like a crying clown all the way
to the land of Nod...

i gave the Afghan my number, he couldn't remember his...
he promised that if i met him again:
he would introduce me to Afghan hash...
he still hasn't called...
i'm thinking: if i go back to the brothel, again...
i'll leave my number with the Madame and tell her:
when Afghan "Jamie" shows up, can you please
tell him to give me a call?
he gave me two buds... again: that's another aphrodisiac:
marijuana... but it's an aphrodisiac in reverse...
it perpetuates the ****** encounter:
it elevates thinking about *** along the lines
of daughter, mother, grandmother...
    sister... wife, *******...

on this very day i experienced every possible
category of woman...
**** me: add queen to that list...
                                so the Afghan was waiting for
his friend... they paid by hours... me?
i figured out the brothel after earning my money:
half an hour slots...
i'm not here to see a priest or a psychiatrist...
although i didn't see the former: i've seen enough
of the latter to know the ******* slapping tease it "feels"
like to talk your problems out
rather than doing the utmost sensible thing of:
thinking yourself out...

how did i combat my "schizophrenic" symptoms...
bilingualism! ha ha!
i stopped thinking in narrative-English altogether...
my cognitive-narrative ability has been long ago ******...
i'm a shrapnel-shadow of my former self...
when everything seemed "solipsistic" and in a rigid-linear
form...
mind you: they diagnosed me as such...
but did i ever step foot into an asylum?
not, that, i, know of...
        i did see a lot of medical students though...
the psychiatrists asked if it would be o.k. for them to
scrutinise me as part of their training:
sure, no problem!
    that's the funny thing about going mad...
you can only go mad once...
the second time madness approaches you:
  you're already riding the death spider into a cobweb
of: like a tired man falls into his bed...
i started falling into a comfort of wearing armour...
that i myself crafted under the guidance of
Hephaestus...

  monotheism and globalism: two inseperable concepts
known to man... and both: terrible for all men...
come to think of it... monotheism = globalism...
i sometimes wish i knew more about the Slavic gods...
but i guess the Greek deities and the deities of the Norse
men will suffice... at least with this trend of thought:
there's less concern for the self as atom and pivotal
for everything that's otherwise decided by luck,
fate, karma... no... the western thinking concerning
the individuation process of establishing the self
as the pinnacle has reached a cul de sac... a dead end...

it's time to return to the old order of things...
i can't be stuck in the monotheism of: mea culpa this
mea culpa that...
this idolatrous self-centrism and self-critique:
i know when i'm wrong... i'll apologise:
but certain "things" are beyond my control!
and for "things" to be beyond my control?
there can't just be one god with a plethora of names
of noun-adjectives:
what do most people complain about in terms
of politics and organisation? esp. in America?
local government vs. the centralised federal politics...
it's the same with theology...
i almost wish there was a politicology...
but there isn't... there isn't...

oh sure... sure... monotheism is grand...
just this "one god" that's the (+) magnet for all these
(-) selves... my self, your self: in the reflective form...
myself and yourself in the reflexive form...
only recently i managed to witness the shift
in the earth's trajectory: it tilted...
that... the URSA MAJOR = URSA MINOR...
it's the same ****** constellation!
the earth moves from summery seasons
into the wintry seasons... it, *******: TILTS!

it's the same constellation! during the summery months
we witness the microscopic detail of the constellation...
in the wintry months when the north is tilted back:
we see the same constellation: on a macroscopic detail:
it's one and the same!
there are not two apart... well... from where i'm standing:
believable by the naked eye... that's what it looks like...

unless light can turn ******* corners...
i'm going to be fixated on that...
or that there are "corners" concerning floating
orbs in silence to begin with!
Little Bear during Autumn and Winter...
and Mother "big" Bear during Spring and Summer...
i thought that was ****** obvious!
no? what am i? another ******* Copernicus?!
****... ****! oh ****: i have no telescope... ****** it all
to hell!

i do have this one query... see... i sometimes play
a game with my eyes... i stress my hawkish eyesight
on something close to me...
do you know that we have these strange parasites
living on our eyes?!
oh... they're microscopic... i can see them...
i'm not talking about:
  the eqalussuaq and the ommatokoita... well... i sort of am...
yeah... they're like ribbons of procreative jelly...
winding and swirling... i can see them with my eyes...
on my ******* eyes: can you imagine?
i'm looking at someone that's on my eyes:
microscopic... i must be out there: no wonder
i haven't touched any psychedelic drugs, yet...
when dementia kicks in: please! dementia! kick in!
i want a mushroom to hijack my gorilla brain!
              
mein gott: if i had children of my own...
what horrible monsters i would have to create...
but i have no time:
i'm forever enthralled by the 1980s post-punk
music scene... Depeche Mode and the Cure
were just the tip of the ice-berg...
recently? i came across Blue Kremlin... the song:
fallbeil... i was sort of aware of the genre:
i could never do much with either punk
or rap music...
who was that protagonist of spreading the knowledge
of music to people? Sam Peele, Tim Peele?
John... i sometimes feel like i'm the audience
of one... i hate listening to the radio:
the reasons are obvious: i like to sieve through music
of my own accord:
i switch off whenever i hear music curated for: not me...
no wonder i'm using facebook at a back-catalogue
of music i listened to...
diary entry no. "x": i was actually looking
for this song...

Musta Paraati: Romanssi...
              my bookmarks failed me... i need to employ
at least two sets of bookmarks...
then i move onto the next band...
if i had children of my own? i don't think i'd have
the time to sift through all the music:
democracy is painful...
it would sometimes feel so much easier to follow
one "line of letters": to only have knowledge
of the Quran... to abolish music...
it would last longer...
i'd be the one with a wife and children
and cultural responsibilities...
instead? i'm? hardly lamenting...
the one without a piggy-bank of expenditure...
ever heard of a penny-rattle-inside-a-piggy-bank /
a lean pig?! life's not getting any better:
life has reached a plateau...

for sure: the children of strangers with me
playing the role of the "weird" uncle:
i'm just distant... even though the queen died...
what game me sanity was: thinking about
playing with Malvina...
throwing *****: rolling *****...
oh: and of course: the brothel...
i just couldn't believe how veneer prone the whole
affair was...
these, *******... would still, rather:
sing the "anthem" of their local football team...
than sing: what ought to have been sung:
god save the king, instead?
they sand god save the queen!
the queen is dead! "was": is!

i was given a dose of the anaesthesia that only crowds:
unruly crowds can provide...
  i was even asked by one of the managers to
not "drool" with a sombre expression on my face...
with my eyes i told him to *******...
maybe it has no consequence for a people
lifted from the squalor of western Africa
now living their dreams in the Caribbean...
but **** me... some of these places were
not colonies: they were obliged to be: protectorate(s)...
they were under the obligation of the British
Empire to continue their ways:
they weren't colonies... they didn't have
a colony status: they had a protected status...

who was robbed? Africans sold African into slavery...
the chief of X-tribe realised: wow! i have too many young,
strong, retards in my tribe...
i want this amount of women in my harem...
might as well catch them and sell them off!
it's not like the Africans ended up doing the Slavic-******
jobs of coalmining...
seems rather glamorous: moving from cotton-picking
to playing basketball / inventing jazz as a breakaway
from classical music straitjackets...

bemoan my hernia when i was born: i will:
but not this... funny that... all those first prized black
supremacists bemoaned: the **** of our women!
the **** of our women!
i've seen how certain black women raise their kids:
it's ******* ugly... why black men fall back on white
women... me too (#): black men have nice features...
i'm not surprised why white girls fall for black men...
i have no issue:

but there's a "Russian" in me that will not be cucked...
so if white girls find black men so attractive...
am i? supposed to follow suite?! i.e. find black
girls attractive?! i... SIMPLY ******* CAN'T!
at work we were queuing up and i was just slightly
brushing up against this black woman ahead of me:
i was being bushed from the back...
she had so much defensive armour about her
i felt like a Saracen archer talking to a Frankish knight...

me?! touching you?!
god forbid i ever touch you! i don't want to touch you!
i hope you don't touch me?!
how am i touching you?! i showed her the distance
between our bodies and exposed both hands
holding ****...
i don't give a ****'s two uncle's spare of white
girls "breaking boundaries" of crafting the second
non-Hispanic "Brazil":
as long as they're not Russian girls:

this is going to be an anti-racist statement...
i feel gladdened seeing a black man with a black woman
having black babies...
why is this an anti-racist statement?
because it doesn't force the RACISM of INTERRACIALISM...
of blurring the whole origin and perpetuation
of race to begin with...
sure... white girls can have a thing for black guys...
but as a white guy... i don't have a "thing" for
black girls...
Turkish? Iranian? Arabic in general?

anything with raven hair and olive skin...
once in a while i pass the passage from Ilford to
Stratford... some Pakistani simpleton feels this
dire desire to spit on the pavement...
******* toad of a creature: hopefully not insulting
the toad: the "conqueror": what a necessary belitteling
of a man... i do understand cyclists harking
spit when becoming exhausted:
but for the simple circumstance of a ****- seeing
a white man "invade" his cultural membrane whittle
"Mecca": it's like rereading Dostoyevsky's Notes
from the Underground in reverse...
little people: little things...
              
              little concerns for me to begin with...

between the dictate of segregation:
all the Pakistanis occupy the lands between the A406
from Ilford through to Stratford...
Tower Hamlets...
all the "better" Indian subcontinent folk moved
to the outer regions of urbanisation...
from Ilford all the way through to Romford
we have the Sikhs and the Hindus...
at work? i'm a minority white boyo...
ha ha... "talk" of minority status:
who the **** ever said i'm English?!
perhaps in Chelmsford: but even there
i would have been asked about my "accent":
and i would probably reply like that one comedian
at the Edinburgh comedy club: you maybe have noticed
that i have an accent... yes:
it's ED-U-CAY-TED... educated...

it's a generic accent: standard English:
not localised English...
i can become a mean: pompous *******
when i hear enough pompous ******* *******
from people who "think" they are worth more than me
without any basis for receiving the required
credit in making: said assumptions...

rancid Berlin!

only one's missing: the one with glasses...
afer her: i will have ****** the whole brothel...
and still i'm not satisfied!
i'll need to find a new brothel!
**** me: that was, slightly, unexpected!

the queen is dead! long live the king!
i have no time for pardons...
the wilting flowers is ever a prescription for
spotting a wilt of tree (a),

— The End —