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i staying this hostel in amsterdam,
less glorifying than ginsberg
to be a czech fool king wording
self-praise about spinoza,
two germans (who decided to take
mushrooms watching american dad:
i tell you, hallucinogenics
and television - plato's cave -
equate to plato's deepest caverns),
i spent the first day with the germans,
i didn't smoke ****, i just drank,
second day i spent the day
with the egyptian (architect student,
nice scrapbook of doodles), who was cradling
a bottle of the potato elixir known as *****,
in one of the cafes he gave me a blunt,
then gave me his hearing-aids from which
music blasts, he chose to play me
le trio joubran's masar (https://goo.gl/4vcBE1),
there and then i opened my mouth and
in oh oh oh surds imitated a woman's ******,
all ******-active drugs are a release from
thinking, ******-active drugs don't like thought,
indeed i was thoughtless, and in ecstasy bold
enough to attract a dutch girl's curiosity
at my mouth turned in O and my eyes closed
being fed the agarwood trembles of horsehairs
tied either end for a song,
it felt... it felt like a unison resound of
solomon's harem... i turned marijuana into
a ****** because of the music...
these ******-active drugs don't like thinking,
they disperse thought into a semi non-existence,
less carousel more dodo (extinction),
active ingredients of such a nature restrict thought
and reveal an intoxicated self, or self without thought:
a "true" / "undiscovered" self.
and now looking into something resembling
a library, but actually a graveyard...
you tend to do that, keep company with the dead
scribblers, given your position of demised
appreciation numbered less than expected
filling a quarter of the imagined auditorium,
you turn to the dead ones...
among the tombstone crucifixes a few are still alive:
will alexander (poet), fady joudah (poet & physician),
jim bradbury (historian specialising in accounts of
philip augustus), norman davis (historian,
author of god's playground, competitor
with paweł jasienica about the history of poland),
there's also an addition by will self and irvine welsh,
but that's about it... the rest of the ******* are dead:
and this makes me feel nearer to what's intended:
a brick, on a shelf, a brick in the heart layering
of first 20 years, and subsequent life after till
promised anno mortum 60 with the world's age
of civilisation aged 2052 (e.g.);
hence too the exhausted day filled with sleep
awaiting its completion,
but that memory stitches me up into a whole of
the puffy duck-feather teddy bear's abdomen content,
as i parted the egyptian with laughter
once a single drag of the blunt started to wear off.

Special anti stupid squad,
Special anti useless squad,
Special anti buffoonery squad,
Special anti senseless squad;

Getting out of hand,
Daily harassments,
Of people of state,
Existing, but just barely,

Brazen extortion,
Shameless shakedowns,
Illegal raids,
Accidental discharge!

The super highway is lit,
Keyboard warriors are miffed,
Cyber mercenaries want blood,
Digital overlords call for war!

But vagabonds in power care less,
They demonstrate total disconnect,
Throwing around meaningless platitudes,
And high sounding refrains;

But why so many?
Arbitrary creation of demonic units,
Specialising in delivering sorrow,
To ordinary folks in the streets;

Why not ask yourselves,
Reasons the youth are agitated,
Why not make diligent inquiry,
Into rise in criminality;

The answers are not on the moon,
Look around you,
And see the gulf,
Between rich and poor;

A country that boasts,
Of the richest persons on the black continent,
Male or female,
Champions the poverty comity of nations;

Therein lay the solution,
Return to the people,
Their stolen past, present and future,
And see if need be for your SPECIALS.

overly theorising poetry can only allow university profs. specialising in the subject the mid-grammar eloquence of philosophical narrative endeavour the um-um-um-ah-ah-mm-mm-blah-blah in trying to elaborate or simply clarify... as it stands... i'm using roman lettering... but i'm writing in chinese in order that many more can live and claim the sire totality of entitlements via lost marxism and the endowment of 3.4 children being nailed rather than ******* into the tangle of seaweed comparisons along the beach of socio-economic paraphrase - i can write english... and you can pretend to be stupid... believe me... i can play this hide & seek until our death dies when we live a second time and forget that i wrote this and you read it; we'll hide ourselves in the blanks, and the hope that remains is: we won't despair over having our memory wiped out like robots unnecessarily memorising the digits of π after 3; how i rather till the field at late summer than till my thoughts into numbers for the sunshine of i.q. glee in parental authority gratified and applauded to simply turn me into a white tadpole of rosy cheeks chequered between success and failure of strangers' expectation levitated into the ******* familial model that's ready for the jaws and clumsy fingers of scientific failures known as statisticians... the journalists of the world of science with numerological headlines that call you - also included.*

sometimes theologising with israel
is like standing next to the brimstone
caste of the golden calf
trying to resurface with people
not used to cast statued embodiments
of pharaohs in stone among hindu
endowments of number & sustenance...
but so it goes...
palestinians come as fleshy shields
for egyptians not having moved an inch since
the crucifixion...
elongating the nile higher than the crumbling
everest of buddha attempting border
and horizon of the dali lama's exile
not extended to los angeles in quest...
if only all nations stood the mark of colorado
of easiest divide in linchpin park of stuttering piston remark...
no i didn't decide to escape through there...
i took the friend's groomed necessity of remorse
to keep him sane...
i grew his remorse and my once loved love
to be his kin... his kind...
i grew his remorse like a vegetable
into a success of career and familial reliefs...
i grew him into a son
into that he might feel remorse being fed
responsibility of the life i could have also lived,
and her too... into a lived i could have lived with her...
and they germinated... into germany...
and i solidified my etymology via logical coupling
with epistemology and eugenics that was without
logic except darwin who was not the only
person to logistic time, timing and timings...
and there it was left... a poem...
a scratch of nebuchadnezzar on the wall
prior to the fear seen by balthazar...
the fear of seven years of madness:
the judea slaves could see the pythagoras a-tip
the pyramids...
but salvage the mind of civilisations
to upkeep prophecy with the foolish
gardens of upside-down, encrusting the king's
skin with oaken bark creases in human age
known as wrinkling or turtle... to see sense of mind
dribbling senses in equations of 1/5 and 5/1
given correlations for the messiah to be sacrificed
and ordaining the comfort of prayer on the crux,
rather than the discomfort of prayer through
work and the thing ordained prayer - on a throne
to our wonder of not having looked
eagerly for the knee to bend beside the algebra of
90º and a, b, c... but instead provoked the anger
of cloning narcissus in mirrors and wax of the idols?
why are you praying over suffering - are you praying
for more suffering, or a quick end?
are you praying for more suffering or your liberation
through the choices of others?
i cannot deny that you took your choices like you
picked up chopsticks... and decided you life
was a free chicken chow mein...
if it was... i can see the bums regurgitate raw cement
into your eyes... and if it wasn't...
i can see you partake in gang rapes of the pensioners' purses
driving them to suicide...
i can then remedy my "name & shame" poetry...
excusing it all as... "capturing the moment,"
given the early stressor signalisation of traffic
past 20, 21, 22... beginning with only the second decade,
of the 21st century.

speciality is a wide savannah
some eat meat, meat on the bone
whereas meat for some is vegetables

i too have my white dove, circling the cul de sac in my myopic vicinity (although i mean that as a metaphor) - oh, no, the white dove is real, for some strange reason it suddenly appeared to visit me from time to time, marrying the city with the countryside, and those woodland pigeons (much larger than the urban ones, and so much cleaner) - who decided to poker the "rat race" of existential re re re (again again again), by building a nest in a tree in my garden, knowing, full well, that there are two cats roaming the earth beneath the nest.

why did i grow a beard? there is nothing lumberjack
fashionista about, not plated, pleaded,
what do you call those chequered shirts?
   no, nothing to "look" the "part" while reading
a philosophy book (come on, i did three
years at university, specialising in organic chemistry),
i just became bored of shaving -
although, mind you, once you grow a beard,
you start to itch (not from the hair) -
but for a desire to shave...
      and that feel of sandpaper stubble -
          which is probably the reverse sentiment
for women who shave their genital hairs...
miss the ol' mr. fluffy i imagine -
don't worry, you can have mr. fluffy on my face,
the hairs are pretty much the same consistency
of roughness - nor the sort of silky hairs on
your head.
  that being said, i have no idea why i'm still
reading heidegger's ponderings ii - vi...
oh right, they're in maxim form, which means
i get to do a lot of thinking in between
every interaction with that **** text...
which is great, i note down the little detail -
or as i like to call them: the bunce digressions;
bunce? yeah, scottish english teacher from
my high school, the most adored teacher
in the school, his teaching style as riddled with
digression, well, more like anecdotes -
i guess that's how you really teach a language:
throw out the grammatical junk,
and just talk about life...
i couldn't stop internally laughing when he
got promoted to the position of *head of year
for class 11 (16 year olds) - and had to sharpen
up, become a serious person, i.e. don a suit
and tie, far removed from his usual linen open
shirts and jeans...
       but the coolio mc-glassy-woz-e died a mighty
death, at the feet of mr. grey and the pink
floyd mantra brigade antithesis, thesis-ses - sez?
and that question is over, with a german: ß -
**** it, put the two together, someone will
say size, someone else will say sigh zzz,
or the opposite zise - rice? ****, there's a c in that
too?!
   oh wait, and a k two... no! too too!
see, that's the thing with english -
  why would you even erode your beautiful memory
bank with the alphabet?
why? as long as you can remember the 26
horsemen of the apocalypse, does remembering
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u w x y z
even matter? they're still going to be minced
meat in words, juxtaposed - having a notting hill
carnival anyway... so? 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 -
now that, is what you need to know -
but as long as you can remember all of the 26 -
as an english teacher: i wouldn't bother
laming yourself with the "correct" sequence -
*******, learn gymnastics, proper.
oh right, philosophy, beards, "slow" reading -
perched on a windowsill having a cigarette -
you know what i find?
    after reading a philosophy book - any for
that matter - certain genres of literature become
more: entertaining - or at least more fluid -
you certainly learn to read faster -
          i'm still knackered by the enforced intensity
of non-narrative anti-greek idea of poetry -
this haiku vogue of: so what,
these 15 16 19 syllables are supposed to give
be a ******* heart attack's worth of emotion
and dead weight, that sinking emotion of
seeing a ****** bride sink, to the common
of an ocean?
              i see david attenborough fiddling with
a sloth and i become my worst enemy:
a drunkard who turns out, is also a sentimentalist,
odd combination, nonetheless:
       better than the fiend wife beater,
so, m'eh;
         but i just picked up on this, well, honed
in on it - philosophy is filled with cul de sacs -
oh yeah, riddled with them,
   and circles, every single question in philosophy
is a circle, i.e. every ? = O.
    the cul de sacs? more like a pair of *******
crutches -
    ad infinitum, ad nauseam,
                  noumenon, phenomenon,
  per se, there are so many others -
           they're like maxim endings within new
and "advanced" maxims -
     crutches -
           shorthand -
         like most of university mathematics is -
can't exactly tell why mathematicians are
terrible arithmetic squanderers -
          always riddling with their ****** abstracts -
so A U V = S T D - or some other ******* -
then you ask 'em: count me my chickens!
i already know how many i have,
   and the ******* come up with:
  the square root of √-i: i? yes, i.
what's i? an imaginary number?
an imaginary number? (an eddie izzard moment) -
an imaginary number? what's an
imaginary number?
  oh, it's complex.
complex as in an S is a serpent,
  a Z is a cubism's take on a serpent and
almost every tree (apart from the pines)
  looks like a Y, and subsequently a serpents
tongue, how every B, looks like... ahem...
every pair of binoculars?!
  yes.
      fair enough... nuff, nuff...
                       i'm just going to be over there,
finishing my drink, and then walking
out the door, and getting some more, mmm'kay?

Every day is a great moment.
Specialising one is making others dull.