Feed me all your lies as I can bear another million in this life
And you know that I can't live anymore without your lies!

Today, You pulled me up to these skies, and told me ' You can fly '
Honey, you just made me embrace that lie
Coz', to be in your eyes, I needed to live with all your lies

But, now you tell me that I got wings, Just to throw me from these heights
You said, "I want to see you fly, fly in these skies like a kite"
"But, I know your are scared of the blue skies
that's why I brought you here at this night"

I know it's all over tonight and there will be no more days or nights
So I begged to kiss me tight, for the sake of all those nights
She said ' No time for snogs tonight, For I got someone else tonight'

'A little push is all I got for you, as there is no space here in this room for you'

I spread my hands as if it's my wings
Then I looked at the skies though I know that all I got is these grounds
Now I got that push, and there was no hush
I could hear their laughs as I reach that land
Still I can hear their laughs as I rest in this yard

the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distilkery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzie,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's grinning cat
album...
     albeit the missing Scorpio
constellation, bound to the British Isles:

                  ●
              
                           ●
      
                                    ●

                  
                    ●
                 ●



●                                  
                      ­             ●

no algorithm no search engine
no dictionary... will equal
asking a grandmother for botanical nouns...
namely, the blooming forthynsia tree,
****** yellow almost neon
against pale kiwi green of April spring wake...

and the electric pale green,
or woken from slumber
blooming baby leaves of
a wierzba...
    a willow...
     electric in that,  almost
quicksilver drooling over
platinum in th spring night
              with a missing moon...

casually, a talk with woman,
and the technical nouns
of botanical expedience...
no algorithm to boot...

always the anticipated digression,
from the most mundane posit of
unraveling pidgin...
I compensate for my father not
speaking pristine english...
but certainly doing a chore
of industrial roofing,
than most, spaghetti finger
pancake arm coming of age bistro
*******...
        the more they aspire to sing,
the more we can hope
to be cured by karaoke on
a Saturday night...
  
    and always the anglophone perspective
of... bellybutton, Greenwich
syndrome... said the English,
so must say th rest of the world...

his shortcomings are my...
what he might as well have said...
tak your toys,
and take a warm dump in their sandpit...
then move into the next sandpit,
and **** in it...

personally I don't unerstand
the attack on grammar...
this antithesis of etymology,
this quasi slang... or rather slang
in a straitjacket...
of... well, at least the orthodox
communists had an economic model...
it was going to fail
because it was going to fail...
        but how lonely...
it must be... being unable to compete
with an external counter,
and merely, implode...
          must be lonely in the current
economic asylum...
imploding all the time,
having to compete with 600 years
after golgotha, and rí'bāh...
      
   5 ****** minutes picking out
a ***** for a Saturday night solo...
went for the shaft of wheat,
akin to a lodged locust corpse
in an absinthe bottle bought
in Amsterdam...

               apparently, there is a difference,
but most notably...
only when, drinking alone...
   the talk of sober people
bores me, how they can hide their
apathy behind so much gesticulation
and **** fakery...
    silent as a grave...
drunk people talking
is..
    perhaps outside the party mentality...
and th sudden spurring of
amnesia, a moral hangover,
a loose tongue comes across
darting eyes...

                   hardly a conneisour of
beer, or *****...
      more, on the lines of...
a conneisour of the knockout
falling asleep method...
      and... not allowing myself
be impregnated with dreams...
strange thus... how people
allow unknown forces to impregnate
them with dreams...
               **** them with dreams...
I deem a sleep impregnated
with dreams to be far from rest...
either sleep and the night
of today, with a morning of later on
today... or nothing...

                    perhaps the safety of the sleep
environment,
of the naturalally produced
hallucinogens that are called dreams...
surely the brain must secrete
a hallucinogen when in th state
of sleep...
              as far as I am concerned,
there is no need to interpret dreams...
coincidentally, this implies...
the counter to the stigma surrounding
lucid intoxication...
     because aren't dreams,
the byproduct, of the brain secreting
hallucinogenic compounds,
      when in a hypo-conscious
state of sleep?
   medically induced coma...
naturally invoked
psychedelic carousel...
             which might explain why...
people wanted to tap into this
chemistry dynamic via the 1960s...
of waking into a dream...
        but there must be some sort of
chemical, secreted by the brain
during sleep...
        that allows for the conjured phantasma...
symbiotic to the state of safety...
the brain, not attached to
spacio-temporal coordination...

   and some would argue that all drinkers
at noon, are dancing sloppy tango
with their shadows.

its raining.
either ways.
not just the clouds outside.
but also the place
where water usually
used to run out.
yes.
my eyes.
they're raining too.
probably more heavier
than outside.
its flooding my papers.
polluting my mind.
with grief.
with wants.
with desires.
it could just be more simpler
with less of rains
pouring down my eyes


if you just lay beside me
held my hand
gave me sweet pecks,
snogs,
hugs
and tickles
and i'd then
probably cry
out of laughter
and fun.
i'm running out
of
love
          happiness
                                cont­act
            and you.
and not running out on water
water from my eyes
they wouldnt just dry out.
there's heavy downpour of salty tears.
that i taste.
in the pain i'm left with.
maybe it isnt supposed to be too hyped
but guess what?

here it is.
Me.
I'm like this.
Too much of everything.
might be the most unnecessary topic to you in the world
but to me.
I'm just too much of it.
and i just cannot try to change.
so if i had a little support
from the man
that'd make me so much better
and less
        tangled
I'd love to run out
run out of
tears.
I'd absolutely
love that.

i used to be a charming prince
a frog was reminiscing
i met a witch and eversince
there has been no more kissing

but everything will be okay
at least i have a chance
to croak all night and hop all day
not on a plate in France

just discovered a really funny girl,
            itsdivya -
                 and in all honesty...
instagram poetry was looming,
  somewhere, in the back of the mind,
but unlike a haiku
by some Chinese ****-'ed...
   or that Li Bai "dross" (there is ever
a problem of drinking alone?
    i thought you could only really
drink when alone? drinking with others,
i tried it, but after the initial
jovial backwards and forwards,
laughter... "micro-agressions"...
                   that deep seeded sense
of regret at having started drinking
to begin with... drinking alone...
                is there really any other way
to drink?
     but beside that...
        a poem about "coloured women" / people...
and, mind you: this is only after
a cider having chopped 8 onions
    and having not found the crocodile tears...
and perhaps two ms. ambers nibbling
ginger...
               (mind you, drunks always
have affectionate nicknames for their...
ahem... what would a ****** addict
call ******? H... smack...
      leech... i don't know...
  i once tested positive for *****
    in a ****-test when i was
being monitored for relapse into
smoking dope, skunk, marijuana...
but that's prior to me having
eaten somepoppy-seed cake,
                 makowiec, so, go figure)...
yadda-yadda-yadda...
      "people of colour"...
what the **** am i then?
           bedsheets?
            porcelain?
     a ***- geisha with full make-up?!
   a ******* african albino sacrifice
    of tanzania?
     you should see me after a few ms. ambers...
well... there's either a piglet hue on me...
or when i start laughing,
    eh... pale crimson...
          and that's not red as in a: "red indian"...
certainly not as blue as a Hindu indian...
and when i get a chance to **** up
some vitamin D in summer...
     i look like someone from Bangkok,
a copper dragon emerges...
                  bū'bū'*******...
                  ­              i'm done...
                         i come from very stubborn people...
i'm not going to capitulate...
                   because, yeah:
                  even ol' whitey overe 'ere had
the "easy ride" throughout history...
             you can bash a native englishman...
sure... m'ah colonial past...
                       colonial past?
                             in the ukraine?
                              under the prussians,
the russians or the austro-hungarians?
                         then under the nazis,
   then under the russians again?
            that, "colonial past"?
                just because i speak this language...
doesn't mean i have to listen
    to what the englishman has to endure.
                
so now, i guess: the draft...

the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distillery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzia,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's album
grinning cat -
                       which, if coupled
with London's outer-suburbia can
be a real motivational piece
of music to pretend to be lost
and have the persistent "ambition"
to keep on walk...
      until finally walking into
a forest, or climbing over a park
fence to drink a beer on a bench
admiring the skyline,
              on, say, mashiter's hill.