when you first look at me
and i mean more than a furtive passing glance
what do you see?
and i only ask because i have read
that employers have this thing where
they will analyze a hopeful-hire
in 30 seconds
and then they go off of that
mere 30, 29, 28
and so on
all the way down to 0
of whether or not they will get the job

now i am not asking you for a job
because i do not want to work for you
and you are not offering me a position
as caretaker, worker, cleaner, lover
and even if you were
it would not be accurate
because i am so much more than
30 seconds

because in such a short amount of time
that only allows a quick once-over
all that you will come away with
is a mix of stereotypes and an impression
based off of what gender you think i am

30, 29, 28
purple haired freak, clown, butch
27, 26, 25
girl, must be a lesbian, what a ****
24, 23, 22
must have been a cutter at some point
maybe still is, but who can really say?
because the world we live in is getting colder
and hotter and colder and layers upon layers
is the only way to go
21, 20, 19
is she a girl or a boy? who does she think she is?
what should i call her?
18, 17, 16
she she she
15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1
0, 0, 0,
girl girl girl

(now let me tell you what
i gleaned from the 30 seconds that
you looked me up and down
like i was nothing more than a slab
of meat and you wanted to
dig a knife into my and cut me into little chunks

what i saw in your eyes
it was not nice
and i saw the moment when you
labeled me as a female
because of my *******
soft and supple and right ******* there
and the societally stereotyped feminine pear shape of my hips
all the way down to where there is no bulge
because how can she be a ******
when she hasn’t got any bottom dysphoria, huh?

and sure that’s a great question
it’s so clever and original
why can’t you just be a tomboy?
why can’t you just be a lesbian?
why not try being bisexual?
but really the question
the million dollar question
is why can’t you just be a girl?

well because i’m not a girl
and i have known this
since i was 7 years old
and that was ******* terrifying
because i knew for a fact that
i was something else than the doctor
had labeled me as after glancing at
my new born baby self
and thinking: yup, ******=female

and i tried being a tomboy
wearing ripped jeans and converse
and keeping my hair short
wearing baggy sweatshirts to hide
my *******
but it wasn’t enough

and i tried being a lesbian
actually since i did not know what
transgender meant
let alone that there was a word to describe
what i had felt like inside for
9 long **** years
i rationalized that i must have been a lesbian
because that was a quick-fix-easy-answer
to the cuts on my wrist and the misery
i felt whenever someone called me a girl

and i tried being bisexual
which came after a lesbian
and before transgender
and yeah sure i guess it worked
but not for long
and then it happened and i knew what
transgender meant and that
i wasn’t a tomboy
a lesbian
or even bisexual

and i tried being a girl
but it very nearly killed me
and then it happened
and i knew who and what i was

i am a transgender male
my sexuality is pansexual
and no i do not have *** with pans
though that’s really original and not something
i’ve heard so many times already

but i know that i am not a woman
and your 30 second analysis of me
does not help you at all
because you see me through a lens
of female, butch, lesbian, she, she, she
and that is not who i am at all)

I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,  
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.

I'm strapped for battle, and prepared for war, so societally sacrilegious make a rich man pray to god for no more, but I'm so subliminally catastrophe ridden that I'll take off like a ***** mcdonalds napkin blown from the hands of a man that was shown the true depth of his wager with sin, because I've been looking within and inside the size of my fevered lies that I tell myself at night so I can close my eyes, and stifle out the cries of the boy who staked his soul in the rise of his own demise

When times are hard- as freezer doors or splintered dinosaur bones-
When times are hard and cold and sort of painful by their very touch
A short-term solution may be found
Unglamorous, unremarkable, but sound:

Submit to moderation.

Harder than heroic, searing want or hope
Undaunted or tragedy-
Submit to not-knowing-ness,
To water-filled gardens
Where you float among ferns, and small lights are arranged in your hair.
Submit to plodding, to avoiding the dark-lit streets,
To shedding dread desire for sparse morality
Submit to the temporary reprieve of going the known ways,
Of doing what's societally right, of fleeing the fire and the glory of the fight
Submit
To your better sense, hand your heart to your mind and
revel in the knowing that
You'll manage. It. Whatever it is that plagues you.
Submit to sensibility.

And you'll know in a while,
After the thorns and dust and glass is all gone that-
You can
Raise your head,
Straighten slumped shoulders,
Remove the knots from your ankles
And find

Gladness
The grass, the water, the sunlight.

But why can't your poems be happy they said
Well they can be
But why should they be?
My fathomage of contemplation dives deeper than societally accepted
but I don't want to be societally accepted
That's why I came here.
Go to your party and sing happy songs
And make happy conversation
And dream happy thoughts
And cry not so happy tears, when the happiness that was packed so tightly into the palms of your fists dissipates and leaves you shattered.
For my fists are open
And my words are spoken
And my poetry may not be happy or grace
But it sure leaves a smile on my face

1
with each passing day you only grow yet more sickened by your every birth rite; keep your loathing for your *** and your name in a glass full of soil on your bedroom windowsill where the light will bring life before your societally imposed sense of shame can strike it down. you belong in a textbook of the future, a born-astronaut’s biology class.

2
here is somebody else’s name; here is your voice, with the texture of a nimbus cloud; here are your eyes coloured all blue, but a sickly sort, blue like a vein, blue like the wrong side of the sky, and the wrong shape of skull.

3
by the time you wake up, the world has already determined who you are going to be today. randomised generation: you are, you are a girl, you are doe-eyed, you are bitter, you are sweet, you are a puzzle to be solved, a shell to be broken, a wrong to be put right, you are pity’s cygnet under the wing of the mother bird, you are beautiful. you are beautiful. but you want to be ugly.

4
you want to be a blank slate.

Aye, so I feel down
so  like any societally inept man throughout history
I resign to write self-assuring philosophy

Whole books of advice, not taken  
to scorn those who make my mistakes
I even quote my dead depressed brothers
to bestow a false valid weight

But more than anything at all,
I think Nietzsche was most right;
all us philosophers
who shrugged off all heaven or hope
retreat to our own arrogant plan
that we figured it all out

Polly Urethane
Girl with a peculiar name
Born into the oddest of times

She walks through the fields
Picking flowers at will
Tying them in bundles of rhyme

She then takes to the street
Corner of Humble and Meek
And gives flowers to the societally blind

Polly Urethane
The girl with a peculiar name
Looks at life and just has to laugh

Polly she knows
The silly world never slows
Here and gone in a flash

Polly she tries
To take it in stride
Though at times she doesn't understand

She's here to save all that's right
To the tune of delight
Played by a number nine piece magical band

Marching Main Street
Near the corner of Humble and Meek
Where Polly stands, flowers in hand

Polly Urethane
Girl with a peculiar name
Born into the oddest of times

I’ve never been the right kind of girl,
Too mean because I don’t smile often,
Too fake when I laugh,
Too skinny because I don’t have *****,
Too fat when I can no longer squeeze into my old jeans,
Too quiet because I don’t voice my opinions,
Too loud when I speak my mind,
Too obliging because I follow orders,
Too stubborn when I make a stand.
You see,
We will never be the right kind of girls,
Nor do we have to be.
We are too much of everything,
That we can’t be labeled,
Put into societally standardized boxes.
Like the sun,
We can’t be contained.
Like a flower,
We can bend with the wind and still not snap.
Like a blade of grass,
We can be trampled on,
And still survive.

I don't believe in gender roles
Because how are we supposed to societally grow
If we set restrictions on
What can be done and by whom
Simply because of their anatomy?
I don't believe in quitting
Because how is anyone supposed to learn
If we just allow
Giving up on hopes, dreams, goals
Simply because, "it's too hard"?
And yet we make life a cage
Too small even for a canary
Choking ourselves with regulations
And stereotypes
Striking fear into our own hearts
We live in the land of *******
Where we claim
We can be whatever we want to be
And do anything we set our minds to
Yet here we are
Not much further along in our
Backwards thoughts
That originated pre oppression
Amd long before we boarded the Mayflower

She wanted to leave but she loved him
He just wanted their life as it was now, to continue
She wanted to experience the world and had never expected
Anyone to tunnel into her heart
She didn’t like it

A feminist would say choose career over men
Choose life over servitude
Love is a prison

And she knew they were right.
Because if she stayed she would resent him
And eventually then leave without him
Unless the unthinkable happened
And he got her pregnant

That would be worse than anything
She would be societally bound to be “happy” then
Its illegal to not want a child once it graduates to a fetus

She had seen it happen before
The late night confessionary posts on social media
“I want everyone to know that being a mother
And a working mother
Is STRESSFUL. My hair is falling out.
But its uh… worth it?”
That was how those posts went.

So she left. And she was too afraid to look back
But hoped that he was following.

paint your face
not too much but just enough to look like it's not
dress up in your costume
smile
laugh
say the "right" words
and move your body in the "right" way

you say you are an open book
that you trust too easily
but baby
that is so far from the truth

your distrust has armor that holds up expectations of perfection
you protect yourself from others seeing you
the real one
not the fabricated
societally conditioned Barbie
at the dispense of others' real-life fantasy

fu*k perfection
authenticity is being starved
and you are the one that is refusing to open your mouth

speak up
and live life boldly

those Elm Park girls are crazy... i never really cycled through Elm Park before, only past it on my way to Rainham and the marshes by the river Thames... Coldharbour used to be one of my favorite destinations... riding this beast of a Trek bicycle... compared to my Viking this is a beast... my Rolls Royce... i mean... the tyres alone slow me down... they're a bit like me comparing my hands to the hands of a woman... i love watching my hands and then watching the hands of a woman... i focus on the thumb... i'm about 1.5x her size... if not 2x larger than her... yeah... i looking at my hands now... i could chop off my pinky finger and the knuckle too and i'd be about right... but these Elm Park girls are crazy... you get to the roundabout... three of them see you coming... teenagers... obviously... and you make eye-contact for... whatever the reason was... the loudest of the three, the most plump looks into your eyes, mind you... the rest do too... and shouts out... OI! OI OI! she approves... no no, it wasn't a mean OI... it was a sort of call girls do akin to what women used to do to women they found appealing when they were amongst other men... whistled or hollered... how this is seen as ****** harassment these days, i will never know... i was just waiting for a follow-up to the OI OI! with a: juicy ****... Elm Park girls are crazy...

Bukowski was such a musical snob,
he also preferred classical music,
         he also only turned on the radio instead
of collecting records...
i abhor the idea of a d.j. - i don't like someone
choosing for me what music i ought to listen to...
sure... i like classical music: i was raised on it...
but even i can say: classical music is not eternal...
its association with names of people who
conjured up the notes is not the same as...
for example: Frank Zappa was into Bulgarian folk...
me? i'm into everything Medieval...
i think that Medieval music is joyous...
it's less rigorous than classical music...
    give me anything from the Germans singing
come the 13th century:
ai vis lo lop...
         or... ich was ein chint so wolgetan...
   i'm all ears... and no one can name the man who sang
those songs first...
like no one knows who discovered beer...
i'm pretty sure the first beer was an ale...
since it couldn't have been carbonated...
how much tastier a carbonated beverage tastes
after you quickly take your glug glugs...
you end up drinking so fast once enough chores
have been done that you burp first... then **** second...
ungarischer tantz...
      orbis factor: strange how modern man looks
toward his predecessors as these savage: idiotic brutes...
concerning modern singing "eloquences"...
and those of the past? the purest noble hearts
even among the most unworthy of heart...
this expansion of the mind has left us...

                  but unlike music... one can easily return
to the style of Ovid... poetry with conversational
overtones... not claustrophobic poetry of rhyme...
of rhyme and lyricism...
yesterday i carved out an epic worth over 5 thousand
words... today i feel like relaxing while:
nonetheless typing...

an article came to mind... oddly enough i still do buy
a newspaper once in a while...
the only newspapers worth reading arrive on
either Saturday or a Sunday...
i once implored for a journalistic Sabbath...
to be honest? you could care less for a Monday
to Friday strip-search of history by journalism...
there are only two days worth reading a newspaper
on... a Saturday and a Sunday...

a Dr. Greg Matos wrote in Psychology today
about the rise of lonely men...
the reply? one from a 67 year old: serial dater...
one from a 28 year old...
i was... hoping for a more stark comparison...
house? will have it... when my parents die...
it'll have to wait...
cook? yes... clean? yes...
     car? no car... i'm "worried about my carbon
footprint" (ha ha.... i thought saving the planet
was a "thing"?), cars are not practical in London...
unless: you're moving something from A to B rather than
merely travelling from A to B...
cooks... cleans... good with children?
i like children...
wait wait... who the who said that cats are
animals best petted by women and that dogs
are a man's animal?
why do people think that cats effeminate men?
you'd kidding me, right?
so you never had the glorious opportunity of...
second time... on the second time...
the first time these two cats... i walked into my bedroom
and found a **** in my bed...
oh you mother... *******... i smacked both of them...
both the male and female...
because i didn't know which one was *******
enough to not do a **** into the litter-box...
i waited... second time: gotcha! you little **** for brains!
it was the male... the larger one...
a tornado embodied me... i stripped off the sheets...
prior to collect the ****...
catching a cat in the act of ******* where he's
not supposed to be ******* is great...
after i put on the washing i returned to him...
oh... now i'm going to wash you... after i smack you again...
you don't **** where you sleep!
he's sleeping where he took a **** right now...
under the shadow... wriggling *******...
washed him and his ***...
then... mummified him in a towel... wrapped it so tight
that only his head was poking out...
by the time the washing was done
i had enough washing-line clips on his freshly washed
body... sitting on a table in the garden
while i hang-up the washing...
then... oh... by then i thought anything would
be a good idea... i took him to the bathroom
and perched him on the windowsill...
plugged in a hair-dryer... started to dry him...
yeah... oh yeah... sure sure... dogs are lovely creatures...
men are emasculated by owning dogs...
but when it comes to cats they are somehow effeminate...
only cat ladies... no devils in the mix
with the likes of Behemoth in Russian literature...
chess playing drunk....
like William Burroughs pointed out...
you ever heard of a cat **** a child?
i've heard countless stories of dogs killing children...
i myself almost lost an eye when my Dobberman
attempted to bite me in the eye...
after i smacked him for biting my Alsatian *****...
mind you... he gave a friend of mine
a nose-bleed for no reason when he bit his nose...
point being... cat's are great... Quarus is my best friend
right now... he talks very little...
i like friends that talk very little...
i don't even talk to him: i meow to him...
saves me the pointlessness some people grieve me with:
i get so annoyed when i need to repeat myself...
third time i'm asked to repeat myself:
you're mumbling... you're speaking too fast...
i raise my voice and people think i'm angry...
i'm just frustrated that i need to say the same thing:
for the third *******, time!
with him? onomatopoeias... which is grand for me...
but this first time i tried to use a hair-dryer on
this ****-lord's ***... i will never forget it...
a 9kg animal... he jumped onto my hand
and gripped it with such ferocity... both the front
paws and their nails and the rear paws digging
into my hand... and the teeth biting into... hmm!
he went straight for the adductor pollicis'...
for my capacity to pinch...
now that i fold my hand i am assured that the grip...
is born without a relationship between
the index and thumb finger... but if i lost my index
finger... i wouldn't lose my grip...
i would lose my grip if i lost my pinky finger...
since grip is allocated to the relationship between
the thumb and the pinky finger...
he was aiming at my pinching capability...
well... he did take a **** in my bed...
and i did wash him in the shower and i did try
to dry him off using a hair-dryer... hair enough...
hmm... i used to clash teeth with Bella my Alsatian...
i don't think it was a dream... i actually think
we clashed teeth once...
dogs are great if you're a child...
but once you get older?
**** me... take them for walks? a cat takes itself
for a walk... they come when they're desperate for
attention... and leave when they're not...
and if they're in your company they're so considerate
as to sleep throughout your shared space...
a cat that's awake is a cat unto itself...
a sleeping cat is a cat unto you:
i imagine they sleep so much because they are
the quintessential architects of dreams...
you project onto them a world that's akin to what
men of old stipulated: a heaven and a hell...
no other animal sleeps so much... well no domesticated
animal sleeps so much...
there must be something in this riddle...
why do they sleep so much:
they sleep for all of us... these Bonsai tigers...
also... why is the lion considered the king of the animal
kingdom? terrible idea...
put a lion next to a bear...
                     the bear is the king of the animal kingdom...

- i find it absolutely terrifying that cats don't
think their lives a waste by sleeping so much...
for a person that usually dreams only sounds
or letters... on the odd occasion will: conjure up a form
of sort... it probably stems from my earliest memory...
of my maternal grandfather... sitting me before a plaything
piano while he sat before an actual piano...
and we played together... i have more access
to memory than to dreams: he was a shadow-form...
a great grey-engulfment...
      but it's absolutely terrifying to see these creatures
(i.e. cats) sleep so much...
it concerns me because then i start thinking
comforting thoughts about death...
i start thinking of death like cats demand
of the deity of sleep more access to sleep more...
being alive is almost being more dead than alive...
cats become alive when they sleep...
double on that statement: as William Burroughs
mentioned: there's never a wasted moment
in the company of cats...
sure... he succumbed to Scientology...
does it matter? i have no ad hominem approach
to this particular writer...

unlike with music... you can easily go back
to the writing style of an Ovid...
i'd like to break away from any sort of erotica for at
least one night...
a night such as this when you can pleasure yourself:
because you have the ******* to do so...
it would be pointless to pleasure myself should
i be circumcised... that's what the ******* is for...
my ******* = no need for a woman's compensation
with a the torturous NIQAB... or anything
the orthodox Jewish girls throw at you...

but a lion is not the king of the animal kingdom!
the bear is...
bears are omnivores... bears hibernate...
bears are far more superior creatures to man...
bears are not governed / manipulated by ideas...
faiths... obligations... a lion will require a role
of protector of a mass of land for his harem
of lionesses to hunt and provide for their litter...
bears? loners... they like their own company...
just like a crown, the emblem...
enjoys a head not attached to neck
or a neck attached to a torso...
a bear standing on its hind legs is less intimidating
than a lion growling? a bear: standing on its hind
legs and bellowing out less a growl but
the unleashed summons of pre-history?
    
             i don't think a lion is the king of the animal
kingdom... if he were... then his cousin tiger would
not sneak in his bonsai cousins into our homes...
we'd have little bears running around...
as pets...

gratifying little taste of a day that leaves my
breath stinking of whiskey
while being cooled come this hour
by the wind... with such an expanse of time
before me yawning at my efforts to justify
my existence...
perhaps a life not living... but i'd live it one more
time and tell myself the second time:
to not be so invigorated by a happy:
infuriating anger...
then again: i wouldn't change a thing...
not my stupidity in youth...
not my wizened self coming to my zenith
of mortality... i wouldn't choose to become
a gladiator of the modern sense
by kicking a football between 22 ballerinas
into order to break off to become a philanthropist:
or for that matter: FLAUNT my money...
in order to gain some incremental
gain in status...
i can't be post-modernist when it comes
to the individual: but in how society is organised:
what is societally expected?
i can be very much post-modernist...

for example? i am yet to meet my intellectual match
of the opposite ***...
i haven't... i can't bemoan the fact that
i haven't... the sun rises... the sun sets...
it's as simple as this...
no number of scientific facts will tell me
that gravity is not at work whether
a body falls from a height or whether a body
is standing still...
there's the microcosm of gravity
and a macrocosm of gravity...
the earth moves around the sun rather than
the sun rising with the sunrise and spreads
its glorious ****** and legs across the sky:
life's all the much: pretty much the same...
whatever Copernicus achieved... well...
that wasn't a "faux pas": a trend a... fashion...
Darwinism feels more like a fashion trend
very much coupled with Freudian thinking than
anything... given? men are outside of the natural
order of things... the strong? no... they do not reproduce...
they smart? they don't reproduce...
among men who reproduces?
whoever is most desperate...
and who creates these desperations?
desperate men... today i cycled past a couple...
mein gott! you really have to be thirsty to couple
with with such a beached whale of a woman...
i take care of myself:
i don't take care of myself:
but even i know that there are limits...
concerning the ergonomics of: in transit...

are we? moving, *******, cattle?! cattle seem more lean!
a little taste of starving would do a lot
of good for some of these people...
i don't wish to demean them...
but sometimes demeaning someone comes
naturally... unconsciously...
i think think that's synonymous:
to judge someone "unconsciously" by way
of natural selection...
man was never going to overpower clarifying
nature with, "some": argument that might make sense...
not among solipsism, narcissism, fate, chance...

then again Bukowski was a gambling man...
i don't gamble... maybe that's why i collected records...
moved into dealing with vinyls...
only today saw the Royal Mail advert for
Transformer stamps...
just in order to keep the legacy of my grandfather
alive... i think... i'll buy them...
i liked the original Transformers as a kid...
i don't really like stamps... but he was a stamp
collector...

i'm thinking: brothels...
  or like in Japan the ラブ ホテル
             (rabu hoteru)
                            what's the ****** difference?
i'm thinking: syllables... rather than atomised
lettering... there's so much of my thinking that
is incompatible with a woman...
even at work... i can talk, with women...
but i have yet to talk about something
that truly interests me...
i just... fake it... if women fake ******* during
***... i fake interest during conversation...
obviously i've seen and heard the "hot shivers"...
outside of work women are just passerby daydreams...
i'm not lonely: i sometimes get an auditory hallucination
from time to time...
a hallucination that... upon changing the tongue
of my thinking: addresses me with my name...
lonely?! i'm... not... alone!

but i am yet to have a conversation with a woman
i'd find suiting my interests...
it's usually talking about cartoons... the past...
and their problems... it's always talking about their problems...
rubber ear says: in one out the other...
my patience is stretched...
in that hierarchy of:
people who talk about other people...
people who talk about themselves...
thirdly? people who talk about ideas...

i'm so unlucky to be wanting of someone of the third
category...
not yet... and probably never...
Medieval melancholic songs sooth me...
at least i'm not one of those modern men
so quickly jumping on the route of despising women
akin to Jack the Ripper style ******, pillage...
i love women too much...
the women willing to be loved as best they can:
if by sensuality alone and no lazy Sunday afternoons...
i'll take that... if that's what the fates decided...
i can enjoy music and literature and artwork alone...
happily...

i was a romantic once... mein gott: i was just a naive
romantic... what was it that robbed me of my romanticism?
mystical Islam? Gnosticism?
Kant? the existentialists?! Walter Sickert?!
probably none of the above...
only today i couldn't stop laughing... a ******* cat for company...
well... if you really want to perform well during
*******... and the *******
of you arching over a woman doesn't tire you
but rather invigorates you... you need to do?
press-up! no... **** going to the gym...
what i learned from rock climbing...
what i learned from cycling and what i learned
from swimming...
never trust a man with biceps... hands... thicker than
his legs to be of a natural disposition...
he's juicing himself up...
i should know: i used to walk marathons
and cycle twice that length...
your legs are naturally thicker than your arms...
unless you're a gymnast...
but a gymnast is not... is not... someone who simply
goes to the gym for aesthetic reasons for ****** appeal...
most of these guys look the part...
but pit them against a profession like roofing
and... all that "supposed", ahem, "muscle":
if ******* cotton-candy!

   operatic(s) of optometry! the deceptive: it looks like...
but? actually?! it... really isn't...
you couldn't ascribe an aesthetic that's pleasing
for a man, more of a joke...
should a man's hands be much larger than his
legs in girth... impossible!
it's unnatural: perhaps pleasing to a woman...
but between men... it's no testimony for him
to be able to fulfill any serious manual labour:
rigour... it's a doped up aesthetic...
it's hardly practical... lifting weights in the gym
is not maneuvering weights around a construction
site... i ought to know...
i did my joyous worth of it...
it was! joyous!

i was allowed to abandon my mmd and justify
the existence of my body as detached from ever having
a mind...
by tonight i'm being soothed
by... Kyrie: Orbis Factor...
a time of: when men were men and women
were women...
even now i tense the muscle in my legs...
and think: i could walk 30 miles in one day...
rather than do 300 press-ups before i'd turn around
and **** about 300 ******...
for 30 minutes at a stretch, of each!

but that's tonight... tomorrow: there might be
some other me of me that i'll have
to bring a challenge to!

if etymology is a history - but not a history: in that it is
more a historiology - which, well: history is the study
of time: but time as exclusively begot by man,
a temporal study of man: by man...
history is, after all: not the history of geology:
since stones have no memory:
only friction and pressure and a time-space exclusivity...

what am i talking about?
probably a quote from the pre-Socratics,
the inquisitive genuis: genius of the Greek
spirit - without citations of Homer:
because i won't: will not cite anything Greek
beside the romantic curving of lower-case
a as α

     perhaps it's just a dreary winter mid afternoon
and i'm feeling all "sentimental":
but sentiments are for women
while emotions are a masculine "thing"...
yes... i see the divergence of the sexes -
my words will not become pop fictive in any retrospect:
handed or mishandled...
etymology and history...

i wonder why i still have the capacity to utilise
the word:     ALBIET
albeit....            to substitute it for ALTHOUGH...
albeit = although...
           old Germanic sing-sing-along...
i would rather use albeit rather than although...
or... rather: that's alðough
raðer ðan                   ðorn:
a halo and a crown?

  i ask again:
         a'h geislabaugur og a'h kórónu?

now i will not ask:
why a'h? otherwise the English tongue would not
hollow out the vowel to a simple a-plha
lymph ah... but a as ~aye... a as a yes...
no...
       ah: dental care: say ah with your mouth open
and a dentist's hands shoved in your mouth...
that sort of ah... but a'h... not ah...
as in no: ah! of relief... an a'h of dental inspection
"constipation"...

hmm... i just had one sharpshooter whiskey
drool of a moment and i'm all ***** Wonka and
the Chocolate Factory in my head...
my eternal demise will be not exploring
the imagination of Roald Dahl as a child...
didn't have time to be a child...
learned how old-English conservatism worked
circa the 1990s in terms of illegality of
migration...
i remember punching the walls when my father
was arrested with my mother: handcuffed...
day short of gaining legal status
since arrival circa 1990...

                    my revenge: banana-boat migration...
now the floodgates have opened for
the miracle of the roaming stars...
but England is a ******* besides:
it's the weather that's a drag...
you must have a melancholic-Scandi disposition
to digest the morose and the melancholic...
by now England is so multicultural that
i begin to wonder whether the English even
noted that: waging war against **** Germany
on principle of defending Poland was
ever a good idea...

       given that Polish soldiers joined the RAF
and fought on English soil all the while no English
soldier stood foot-by-foot on Polish soil...
is Ukraine any, ******* different?
master posing ridiculous affairs of double standard
ethics.. ha...            

ah... another word... constenation...
i forgot what it means: but i remember the word...
"á propos" / pardon pardon:
consternation... not constellation...
akin to the rubric of the word: not grievance...
hmm... not belegarence...
belligerence...

           funny tongue this English and French:
hide letters, show letters: eat letters... regurgitate letters:
dyslexia must be a phenomenon in
the anti-orthography of the English tongue:
'leash... my leash:
my poly-schizoid Shakespearean:
if an apple fell on Newton's head...
a pear for a quill to break the mind
and let explode-in-exploring the phantoms of
abortions...

me? no, i don't have the luxury of choice...
i could (perhaps) choose a naive 20 year old woman
as (a) "compliment":
but then again i find naive women discouraging
for my taste... i don't appreciate the dynamic of
fathers grooming sons or daughters into becoming
the same: football team supporters...
i'm privy to this subtle hyper-paedophilia...
it is... a hyper-paedophilia since the hyper- prefix
denotes: it is collectively: collusively(?)
no, not collusively... openly done...
football team fan grooming...
it is: hyper-paedophilia... a variation of brainwashing
without adherence to ****** acts:
instead... *** ARMY... per example being
a child with a father who's a Tottenham Hotspur
supported...

having digested Ezra Pound's Cantos...
currently digesting Charles Olson's Maximus poems:
i'm not assured anything by postmodernism,
clearly the 20th century was a bridging-gap
in how evolution was to play out
societally...
                  industrially...
already i'm sitting on the throne of bypassing
the old function of journalism:
i have come to question journalistic integrity
with due diligence and find it:
bankrupt: bankrupt like the priesthood:
that journalism was the priesthood of the secular
world i see me: heretic: obnoxious stamina orc...
i'm yet to die... and till then i will:
conjure a hammer and a scythe for every moment
i endeavour to feel a canary of a heart
in my ribcage...

as i was thinking:
of the difference between men and women:
of women and the cycle: birth and rebirth...
the beginning and the end...
while with men there is no cycle:
there's only a way through, a dead end and...
from nothing -
i have no luxury of the riddle of the chicken and egg
i only have the ego and the O of oscillation
i oscillate and do not idea-morph a re-:
recycling, rejuvenation, reincarnation...
i'm a crow's beak device of honing in...
by eclipses of the suns and the gods
and all that is sheen and mirror-smiles...
i am a fetishist of death...
as much as: well... only when life becomes
intolerable do i become: a death-fetishist...
which raises my libido and poo...

         (cut off... not necessarily implying i *******
while taking a ****, but given that
cats can't **** and **** at the same time,
it feels rather natural to ******* while
on the throne of thrones)....

what came first? the ego or the cogito?
that's simpler... can i think without "i"?
clearly i can abstract, which is like: the wording
of division (÷) with words and not numbers:
then again pronouns are like integers...
but given the current climate of "politically correct"
pronoun fetishes of they zee zoo
we have people who have no concept of
pronoun-integer compactness -
fraction-peoples ***-unit abuse victims:
by any decent scrutiny of a glance...
           somewhat casual-schizoid and not:
the classical schizoid-bilingualism...
more schizoid-bisexuality... brains in the sheets
and in the hemorrhaging genitals...

one could add: there appeared a rainbow at
the spectacle of Golgotha...
sickly sweet genius of the Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
against the ailing military genius of Rome...

i am going to write an apologetic letter to
Fulham F.C. for granting me work...
till the end of the year Fulham shifts are clashing with
Tottenham and West Ham shifts and i just won't
be able to fulfill the demand:
and given that both the Tottenham stadium
and London stadium have a summer prospect
of entertaining artists for concerts...
well: working at Fulham is a sort of regress...
although the rate of pay is circa £20 while the other
stadiums pay less... it's still less pay given
that Fulham is only a football stadium
and cannot be utilised as a concert venue

a much needed letter of apology:
given that until the end of the season Fulham shifts
clash with Tottenham shifts...
and that given recent developments at
Tottenham invoke me in a supervisory role:
outside, hands-on... directing the crowd
like a Moses... obviously the escalated "burden"
of accountability is a promising aspect of
any role: given the mantra of:
the easiest job in the world is not appealing...
alias of: but i'm not heart-surgeon either...
tongue and language this spare plaything of mine
i will notoriously retreat into grammatical-gymnastics...

just to reiterate: chicken or the egg?
that's wording it in old Latin,
avoiding shrapnel wordings...
i.e. what came first, the chicken or the egg(?)
similarly:
(what came first) the ego or the cogito?
primo ego vel primo ego cogito?
clearly the construction of consciousness
"consciousness" begins with "scenting" the optics:
"scenting" the optics?
oh... coordinating the senses...
coordinating = harmonizing...
even though thought leaves so much room for
error and does not actually invoke any
active participation in the senses...
the ego: doesn't either...

no amount of thinking equates to the participation
in identity, thinking doesn't
stubborn ego is all about the id in the capacity
of the ideologue of identity...
a quasi-magnetism of adhering to
fixations... a unit a baron of the integer
never too sure whether or not capable
to disintegrate into a schizoid fractionable pronoun:
semi-noun politics:
wording at play...

    of course i'm drinking: to get through Olson
you need to drink...
to get through Pound you have to...
****'s sake... go and see an opera...
to get through Ginsberg you have to listen to jazz
and for the rest of the *******:
i like to listen to anti-feminist lyrics
of Sheryl Crow while reading Bukowski...
something about a "home" being a place
where men lie...
not lie as in: take a rest...
but rather deceive...
       i don't like deception: i already have a shadow
so the night is deceiving me
dragging behind me...

men and women: unlike an INXS (in excess) song...
men think disparagingly:
women think disproportionately:
women have really **** spatial coordination...
i almost punched a woman in the face
while giving directions at Fulham...
apparently my open hand seemed like
a pucker kiss in her mind:
"learning disabilities"(?)               maybe...
the world O so cruel:
but not                            Ω    (i.e. ooh not oh)
so cruel: like there's some juice to be squeezed
from a frigid lemon: frigid?

who can i complain to...
a girlfriend in her 50s and me nearing my 40s
at least i don't have a reproductive incentive...
woke up to fun fun fun
went to bed with fun fun fun...
calls it creamy-pie when the junk juice of
alligator drools oozes from her ****...
because i really couldn't stomach
a woman in her 30s with a Cpt. Hook syndrome
of wanting children...

tick-tock-o-ah-clock-tick-tock-o-ah-clock
(have a double helix on that, mate?)

i'm too fail-safe for that sort of jargon...
if i didn't replicate my genes by now
i want the "fun" to continue...
surrogate fatherhood sounds most appealing...
in line with my sentiments for ancient Roman
history...

but let's face it (face it i, not you or we):
men's thinking distinguishes them from others (other men)
while they return to a generic man...
prototypes galore...
we all want different things...
either riches or festering in a semi-digested state
of existential prowess with mothers and fathers
and hobbies...
some want to scale the heights and have eleven children
by 6 different mothers... rich enough to do so...
as men we want different things...
regardless: even being homeless is a Bob Dylan
phantasmagorical allure for a freedom
deeply associated with: of Sinope (Diogenes)...

the modern world has taught me to be more of a cat...
i imitate a cat:
i like a roof over my head...
i'll cook i'll clean i'll keep conversation...
Matthew the cat...
i like the cold but i also like the warmth...
woman is a universal creature:
all women want the same thing...
although their allure changes from woman to woman
each woman is different, individually:
as a person...
but in terms of a woman being a thinking creature:
all women are the same...

men? men are the same: thoroughly throughout...
every instance... it wasn't a man that caused
the Trojan war...
Trojan war and the accountability of being inquisitive
from the metaphor of Eden?
men are generic in person...
although different in thought: since we want
a variety we come to represent...
by our ***-outliers...
criminality is: rest assured: a search for freedom...

coming to the conclusion that...
well... there was German idealism there was Platonism
there was scholasticism there was there was...
but... what? first wave second wave third wave...
it's still feminism...
            no original thinking no...
it's still stoic feminism...
it's still going to be cynic feminism...
a **** contraceptive pilling of... cartesian feminism...
prefixing femme fatale to anything
a man thought of first to cope with
living without children...

but i do have a surrogate girl i'm very much fond
of so much fond of that i was willing
to stay up almost all night to bake her a birthday cake
so good so that during the pool party
every single attendee SHUT THE **** UP
and gobbled down the carbohydrate plush-hush...
****'s sake...

stoic "feminism"...
one movement to rule them all... Sauron hypochondriacs
of owning *****... as if the role of mother
was a burden...
and not a negligence of "self-discovery"...
oh sure... those desperate brats are brimming on
a necessary spanking but seeing them being
spoiled and not affected by a cane
is also, sort of, disorientating for them...
the joke being: you give them "too much" freedom
and... guess what!(?) they won't be able
to decipher freedom, denote it,
filter out what they might end up wanting!

stoic feminism my ***...
my *** greasing up a donkey's hind with a warm ****...
2000 years of men thinking:
reduced to 50 years of women playing
the crab-bucket game of cocktail miasmas...
it's infuriating given the innate persuasiveness
of women to: get the Trojan horse on the move
by men... gaslighting 21st century advent...
mind you i've been with enough
prostitutes to know the difference between
staged: receiving pleasure and
staged: faking pleasure as non-received...
up to a point where she's calling you up constantly
and you keep reminding her:
listen... i've found my little Robinson Crusoe
isle of happiness and i really don't
mind not proving my manhood anymore...
i've tried a ******* and i can vouch that
it's not an ego boost but a hindering experience
of not seeing a lover's face during *******...

because it is like the execution of the prophet
Isaiah: being cut in half at the bowels...
it's disorientating: ******* two women at once...
of sure... it looks great for a ******...
but in practice?            no....       n'ah ah...
unless... you reduce it to one jerking you off
into the mouth of the other... or something like that...
then again all the ****** tension in the workplace...
by the time you arrive at ****** intimacy
with someone... it will probably be...
something akin to: 2 years
                                              and 7,186 miles away...

or at least...
there i was thinking: what also came first,
letters or names?
nouns...
i'm pretty sure we said words long before
we used letters...
we only came back to conjuring letters after already
conjured up vector-meanings
as words...
the ancient Greeks confuse me with their
anticipation of atoms...
but there was surely a construct of meaning
concerning water before w-a-t-e-r
                    and certainly before H₂O...

so yes... words came before letters...
it's only later that we designated the cutting up of meaning(s)
into... more so...
a - a letter but also an indefinite article...
i - a letter but also a pronoun, personal?    sure... "i" too...
in ******
you have w - which translates to 'in'
and z - which translates to 'with'               yes...

there is a distinction between "air"         and 'earth' quotes...

we must have grunted shovelled, breathed in breathed out
and then! the genesis of the first word...
i wonder what the first word was, ever was...
it sure as **** wasn't god...
given that god was probably the last word...
sun and moon and water and
first to speak of giving names to things
to coordinate... much later time and space:
concepts per se...
curiosity by noun
yet confirmation of a shared experience
by the inequality of verbs:
like banking is not plumbing
and the disparaging rewards of:
say, borderline automation fancy of markets when
investing money and not,
    and when not providing enough poems
or: charitable carpenter with...
hoarding musical chairs no one will sit on?
lopsided supply-and-demand nature of money...
compared to actual goods...

plastic-money... there's too much of it in the world...
apparently money doesn't grow on trees
anymore... since these days banknotes are made
of plastic... and there is too much plastic in the world...
paper-money: simple thinking...
let's go back to basics...
point being: i enjoy books and music...
i buy whiskey and once upon a time i used
to transfer my earnings to prostitutes...

money isn't paper anymore...
nor is journalism a secular priesthood...
the true advent of democracy via the internet
and all the while the current politicians are clowns...
beside who the true politicians are:
the soloists akin to the demagogues and dictators...
because that's who you "suddenly" end up trusting:
solo-actors...
          well at least they are immune to conspiracies
of "in-groups" that languish any accountability...
at least i know who is accountable for what...
because Tony Blair and...          are...    will       be?!

by writing this and posting it...
i can bypass all that editorial scrutiny of what will
sell or not sell...
i earn enough to not worry about money...
that's the whole idea...
money per se being something akin to a "philosopher's stone":
i can turn a piece of "paper" into a plumber...
i can turn a piece of "paper" into a train driver...
i can turn a piece of "paper" into...

money is the "philosopher's stone"...
oddly enough... water imitation...
let's keep out of each other's way...
    best that way...
but there is too much wealth in this world...
wealth that is not appreciated: but squandered...
squandered by being floundered...

hell... i'm quite frankly content to cycle through
London, use the public transport than
have to "compensate" with "contritions"
of being mechanically - (&) viable
          for the workforce without a horse but a car...
esp in this oorban gungle... j j jade...

I am not who I thought I'd be
Sure I look a little like John McClane now
If he'd birthed Gary Busey.
An unrelenting action hero
That finds "action" an unlikely filter too far from reality, and "hero" a notion so freely given that societally we have reduced what it was meant to mean.
Heroes used to be subjects of admiration
That which inspired aspiration in our youths (utes- some of you get it)
But the title of "hero" was an impermanent...

(Character) is a hero (timeline) for doing (x)

Yet it becomes their lifelong nomination to the firmament of history.
How many of our "heroes" died on crosses only to reveal skeletons (a lot) or journal pages of moments?
How many times have "heroes" been exposed as nearly inexplicable excellence deposed by the consequence of inconvenient fact?

{This guy did a super awesome thing... but oh, wait - no... don't Google, he's really a *******}

That achievement, as laudable as it should be, is no replacement for an expectation to be human.. to be in spite of being.

Athletes, actors, poets, and songwriters, producers, investors, and attorneys who all say "you're going to do great kid", who support you right up until the moment you aren't doing great... or in reality: they're about to get "me too"-ed. {I desperately want to call it moo-ed}

It's not an accident that every movie is familiar and every song sounds the same except the few artists who stake their own vulnerability - it's a badly written matinee.

[Like trying to make those words rhyme]

If we sound or seem mundane, it's because you, the sheeple, conditioned to show contrition at the steeple, believe it to be a reflection of your pain.
We've crafted a carefully cultivated currency of resistance in the constant contentious, captivating and  licensious, breeding and ever feeding, consumers of today... to tell you all to stop listening to us.

And stop smoking cigarettes <wink>.

Taylor Swift, America's sweetheart and a genuinely talented songwriter keeps writing songs about why you should stop listening to her. And that none of you get "it" is probably why I never will.

It's more subtle now. The punk and post punk movements of the pixies and velvet underground refaced the pavements surreptitious to what "adults" then thought was "a wall of sound".
But what is punk now except an exposition of 30 somethings trying to find the after hours after party, even literally underground? Or just go to bed?

We cannot even have an open discussion without being so hurt we have to find private corners to complain about anyone who disagrees with "me"
Never giving credence or understanding of what "me" means...

It's nothing. History will forget you as I hope it forgets me. The only thing I hope is that a few people read my lines, I might help shape a few minds, and I might live forever in the national archives - the pages of memory.

Terrible people are capable of great things
Just as every person history records as great...
Just as all "Great people" have all done horrific things.
No exceptions.

Freaks:
perceive its
inherent meaning—
societally or personally—
depicted as aberrant;
amid deviant imagery
works individual fear

Freaks:
riven tableaux;
shards and flawed objects
poster children of abnormal
creation, amusingly ******
sideshow tattoos shared
freely among their own

Freaks:
characters sell
self-loathing as humor
without any constraint
singularly populating
deep-rooted circuses
like lines in their Bibles

Time became story
And I fell victim
To the idea of freedom
And what that looks like.
Making up my own game
Then forgetting how to play
Writing my own lyrics
To a song
Never sung.
I forgot
The beat
To the drum
Then dances with it
All wild and crazy
On the beaches
Of a new moon
Lost and frigid
Yet warmed by the sands of yesterdays sun.

Is this what dreams are made of?
Hippy stardust
Among dusty faces
Of such sweet young travelers.
Forrest bathing
Naked
Unafraid
And societally dumb.
The way we were living is not
What we were made for.
So now what?
We turned to the ancient idea of what god is
And they call it “New age”
Spirituality
Unorganized
The way it all started
Before Babylon
And the beginning of corruption.

Time
Running in circles
In the decade of the young
I came to you empty handed
And you took everything from me!
And all I had was the stars in my eyes.

Forced
To live amongst the wicked
And become one of them even
All for cigarettes
And an ounce of food.
Saying
How did we get here?
And where do I go to next?

Replaying
My dads old lyrics
Over and over again
While hitching on the highway 1
One line ringing louder in particular;
“When your here your here”
And nothing to this day has ever been truer to me.

“Be here now” said Ram Das
So your a “traveler” yet you will never be two places at once.
look up to the great heavens of the sky
And the trees - there your home now.
But when you’re here you’re here.
And you will never ever be “there “ again.

Believing
Everything a mystic said to me
Forgetting what day it is
And saying good night to
O’Ryan
“Now this is really living “
I thought.
And it was
10 years later and I’m still humming to the same **** tune.

So this is what dreams are made of
And where stories are born.
You almost lost me to the open sky
And hum of the crooked highway
I almost fell down while running off the trails of the race
But realized no one would be there to catch me if I did. So I stood up and learned to walk again.

(Am I doing this right.)
Am I doing this right? Am I doing this wrong?
Now  that the masses have turned away from me?
But I found my people, once again, hidden behind the trees and past the rivers.
Comforting me
But with slightly different eyes than before..

(On an island)
On an island surrounded by water
I re-live the currents of TIME.
Oh sweet ocean, teach me how to love again!
I will repay you by pouring into you all of my hopes, dreams and comforts.
You can marry me with your water droplets
And I’ll bless each one with every year that passes by

We are mothers and sons
And daughters
And meadows
I am the stream that runs through the vains of our ancestors
I am  the polluted soil
Still giving life to the sprouting seed.

yes, i sometimes do: the odd star-gazing... not because i find solace in the constellations - although: truth be told: how did man arrive at a pyramid or triangle: or any other geometric proposal if not via the stars... i look up... i see them bewilder me and thrown me into the pit of geocentrism - by night this is what the eyes require to digest... take a peep at... come to think of it: i have written this for eyes solely: i think (therefore i doubt) i have left my tongue somewhere where onomatopoeias are best uttered: where words have no power... *** in a brothel - i like to think that all brothels are scented with an allure of a perfume that's very much all: bourbon "stink": by stink i'm inviting a texture rather than a scent per se... it's sticky... it's almost gluttonous: how these two opposing bodies can flesh out an architecture of diabolical pressures with a tenderness: that upon touch is a wilting passing by. Yes, these stars... these fazes of drifting between stages of amazement coagulated with utter dumb bewilderment - their sanctity of faking animate illiteracy - as any sensible stone might: a breath of god a devil's eye - they are forever "sensible": unmoveable... yet give them enough years and they are predictably chained to the same canvas. I can't object to what i'm forever subjected to... these stars these pressures of time... so to deviate... i took a stroll through my garden in this glorious wealth of night... to admire my work on the cement work of a newly erected fence... that i had to dig a miniature trench and fill it with cement so that my neighbour's **** garden would not penetrate my bias against weeds... the rains have been plentiful... no **** sprouts on my side of the fence... armed with a flashlight i chanced upon looking down to see where my foot were toying with step and perhaps some mythology of chess... what did i shine upon? well... the graces of the night welcomes a **** sapiens dreaming about origins of **** similis... that's all the night is worth: a sleeping fellow at the pivoting crux of membranes - i too desire a night filled either by a vacancy of dreams: therefore a lack of... or at least something to give my fatty sponge of a brain: illumination ill conceived... two slugs: feasting over a corpse of a third slug... that i must have strapped to a pressure from my foot... and how... gloriously spectacular: this feast of two slugs on a body of a third... some of the consummate part thus exposed almost looked: appetising in a sense that: seafood appears when... given unto a dissection prior to... the cooking hands... yes.. yes... STAR gazing... only for a little while... L is just sort of a right-handed... while delta is most certainly just shy of an equilateral triangle... pity that a square was never given a "letter": beside the point! up up above these stars these dreams of an exhausted geography of the world... the tamed and the less so projects of ennobling "barbarians"... but of course little ol' life beside man feeds off the night... a wise fly will take refuge on a leaf of ivy beside a ripe fist bundle of teasing burgundian blood fruits... even if shining a light upon it, it will not stir or dare movement... shine a light upon the slugs... the younglings will fold their eyes and peep from a fatty covering of their slurpy gut / glut... but the higher ranks 'un will continue their festive **** of cannibalism... for someone who still managed to see how the countryside operated... the ergonomics of keeping chickens for both eggs and flesh... how chasing one poor judas around the yard... yielding a stump of wood an axe and... the last electricity of a rolling of the eyes and the extension of the tongue from out of the beak... until... the body was carried away to be plucked from its feathers and poached for a soup... the remaining chickens would start up a frenzy... jumping onto the stump dancing voodoo... pecking at the head and slurping up the gushed out blood... for all that's night: oh look! prime visage to counter the constellations has decided to take up a promenade: peruse of the sky... scythe baron that coming upon her zenith will turn from an illuminating autumnal bask in yellow to a bone carving whiteness... half illuminated while half hidden... this star gazing... but little of the night i've rented for an hour beyond a predictable pattern for days to come / to salvage... such "things" happen below mere minor stalking a sensibility of cravatte attired smocking donning type of societally accepted conversation: such things as csns only breed mirrors and ghosts for their brood... and have to discourage an ownership of them from a genesis: one born from the agony of thought: is to never find repose in the well-established furore of an aging body... the original splinter is this: gruesome advent of over-adjectivity... from the sensible pleasure of the night... to this base life ladden toil for toil: oculus per oculus... such greasy masters of sloth roam the critter domain of the night... such slurp base degradations of what's edible and what's not... i come to the conclusion that: not all is this forced **** of prizes, of amnesias, of... i kept myself forgotten upon a third descriptive usher-ing of detail... yes... from such heavenly sanctity of an above... to such debasement cold... thrown among a harvest of potatoes... it has been an absolute pleasure to revel in: the demands themselves presented... perhaps what's missing is... an haiku for the coroner? i gladly think, that that's all that's ever missing: to make enough puncture into canvas, page... silence.

JACKSONVILLE -- A man who was taken into custody by a S.W.A.T. team on Fri. (9-13-13) was found dead in his hospital bed at U.F. Health at Jacksonville Mon. morning. Though he was restrained, David Bush, 61, is believed to have strangled himself with a cord from the wall attached to the call button, according to Jacksonville Sheriff's Office Chief Annie Smith. After being taken into custody on Friday for Possession of a Firearm by a Convicted Felon, Bush was taken to U.F. Health under the Baker Act for potentially being a danger to himself. Smith said Bush had a history of mental health and substance abuse problems, as well as a past criminal history. G4S is contracted by J.S.O. to monitor inmates in the hospital and Bush was to be checked on every 15 minutes. Smith said J.S.O. is still in the preliminary stages of their investigation and needs to monitor the security logs and interview those who were monitoring Bush. Smith said no foul play is suspected at this time.

Concerning crimes of homosexuals, from FEMINISTE: The Justice Department reports that prison **** accounted for the majority of all rapes committed in the U.S. in 2008, making the United States the first country in the history of the world to count more rapes for men than for women.

It's societally suicidal to empower perverts by legalizing *******
******* great-granny to spite grandma is grand criminal diversion
Burning Bibles while wolfing salted pork ain't religious conversion
Napalming Fallujahan infants is a prosecutable war crime incursion


B.B.C. news article: "...Bin Laden left Saudi Arabia in 1979 to fight against the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. The Afghan jihad was backed with American dollars and had the blessing of the governments of Saudi Arabia and Pakistan. He received security training from the C.I.A. Itself."

what a strange affair...
affair without any cheating:
that Napoleon would mind
a person knowing two tonnes worth of tongue
and say:
that man is worth two people...
but a polyglot?
how can a polyglot suprass a bilingualism
with the schizophrenic underpass?
a polymath in the Napoleonic dynamic
is not something matched by a
a monolingual Hitlerite dynamic...
today...
at work... i experienced a hot air balloon:
sort of...
i was talking with two women
in "higher positions"...
chess is chess: king is pawn and pawn
is king
and queen is rook, is bishop:
i prefer backgammon to chess
because i like to strike by chance...
but the would-be-overlords
noticed that:
why are these women touching my face:
of feel my lowering body temperature...
feel my cold hands:
are your cheeks hot enough...
rub rub: snub snub...
i overhear and then i just:
don't, ******* hear...
            but as a bilingual you have:
twinned agendas...
as a polyglot: you reserve the right
for the one tongue proponent:
Napoleon would say:
we only have use for spies
with only two tongues...
anything beyond two tongues is
lost in polymathy...
and we don't want that...
so Napoleon tried to conquer Russia:
******: attempted the same...
no sooner than they realised:
there's the attempt at
the iceberg of Greek...
why would these women give me
their frozen hands
like skeletons
touching my cheeks...
why would they?
must i really tell my spouse my would
be...
that... it's all savvy and gold
and Baker Street is my favorite
underground station...
at least with bilignualism
you don't get the confusion
of bi-sexuality...
n'est ce pas?

               when would be *****
start touching your face you hardly go
ego tripping and fishing:
oh: well, with this arrived in the world
and the lesbians want to touch you beard
to test: ****! shiesse ist reel!
then then Finns come and all becomes
nightly, quiet...

but why would these women touch my face:
stroke my beard:
i want to go to sleep!
Napoleon only asked for a man knowing two tongues:
two agendas:
a polyglot is a genius reserved for the Hebrew faction
of endeavor...
by the time you speak 7 tongues...
you can't speak 2 tongues in divergence...
you can't:
a polyglot is not...
worth establishing a dualism-schizophrenia...
a bilingualism all-put-together...

the rattle snake
is my icecubes shifting in my glass of
emptying with only ***** and no mixer...
but these would be *****:
i managed to feed one standing in the rain
with me:
a dirsty burger: sweet onions,
bacon, cheese, the half of the calf of Egypt
some Egyptian bun...
but still the teasing of the hands:
how cold are we: are we: are we?
must you touch my face to
but if a woman asks: and also: doesn't ask:
i'm more than willing to comply to her
asking...

there's a suggestion:
the bilingual overcomes the polyglot
because there's a two tow tongue to juggle..
but i'm no polymath:
to the extremes, though:
what becomes societally fucntionally:
useful... Russia ought to know;
England; apparently; doesn't!

hey presto, hey Jude! don't sing...
a bad song... for me to ever... forget..
you were singing more than
equipped in bingo-eureka: sorry... thought went
missing in no longer kept oughts.

why would would be lesbians start
feeling my temperature of my hands
then my face...
like... my ****** partner has elevated ******
jeallusy to a ******* zenith...
i sent her some wild p.s. messages
and she snores like my mother
and i can't contain her...
and i want her to be least constrained
but she just pushes and pushes
this child that will never be
and if that's the case... hey presto Edie:
i'm both the father and the son:
of my myself:
the holy ghost comes in the format
of looking at wild animals!

It's societally suicidal to empower perverts by legalizing *******
******* great-granny to spite grandma is grand criminal diversion
Burning Bibles while wolfing salted pork ain't religious conversion
Napalming Fallujahan infants is a prosecutable war crime incursion

It's societally suicidal to empower perverts by legalizing *******
******* great-granny to spite grandma is grand criminal diversion
Burning Bibles while wolfing salted pork ain't religious conversion
Napalming Fallujahan infants is a prosecutable war crime incursion