could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman **** and go free to
**** again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

So, you're a shelf stacker?

It's Stock Replenishing Operative, actually.

I mean, I do take stock and stack it on the shelf, but it's an easy job,
and I can do it by myself.

We're inexperienced, part-timers,
full-time staff are corporate climbers,
which is fine, but they really don't like us.

Fill the cage and wheel it out,
steering 'round corners, missing the customers,
don't hit the display,
they'll be hell to pay from the supervisor,
they'll vapourize, ya.

Thirty pots of Pesto,
here we go,
bent over at an angle, strainin' my back trying to untangle the packaging,
it doesn't have to be perfect just get them in.

Where's the footstool?
It's with Abdul, fair enough, I'll help him out,
have a laugh with the staff, it's the only way to get through, until
"Ryan! We need you on shampoo."
So off I trudge, to grab a box,
Neutrogena, TRESemme, and Radox.

That has dragged and dragged, but it's break-time now,
just 20 minutes to figure out how I'll get through the rest,
I'm not stressed,
just bored, very, very bored.

Working here has shown me what I don't want to do.
It's fine for a wage,
but I'd love to engage in something of interest,
a job that suits me best.


Enroll at Uni?
Maybe that'll improve me?
Then away I go, no looking back
and all those things I think I lack
will become history, hopefully.

in all honesty, i've become a supermarket ghost, one shelf stacker inquired whether the cheap ***** i'm buying is any good, well the beer Amstel is decent, but the whiskey i mix anyway - a wake-up call to stay away from writing ancient greek style epics, a shelf stacker at a supermarket, that's all it took, bye bye chaos of the north, or northern chaos, or whatever i tried to romanticise / or make a fetish of.*

concerning ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ,
in an analogical form, very much akin
to mozart and joseph ii of austria
(the famous yawn - Amadeus quote
'too many notes!'),
people need nibbles!
nibbles! i tell ye nibbles!
like the opposite of cinema,
as bird-man states at the end of
the film: people want action!
explosions! alien invasions!
they don't want existential angst
screened, they're so sadistic in
this department that they want
the solo eventuality - they want
to experience existentialism solo -
existential: out of every exit of example,
themselves. bird-man got it spot on,
but revise cinematography using
poetry, and what do you get?
the destruction of western and even
middle-eastern narratives with
the haiku - the haiku ****** up
prosaic poetry like karaoke ******
up innovative ballet of the tongue -
translated bird-man's investigation
of cinema, put it against poetry,
yep, pair them up,
when cinema craves for action
and adventure,
poetry craves for nibbles,
no one is going to burden Homer
for the next 1000 years, or Dante
should it matter, they'll want
nibbles, haiku upon haiku,
short and sweet... fellas' bring in the
insecticide! we're going to smoke
those cockroaches out with one
smooth toxic cloud! puff! and they're gone!
poetry can be a cinema,
i mean, if cinema appeases the public
with extrovert activity without
the necessary identity of the protagonist
all the better... i dare you
to create a protagonist's introversion
as some point... Mr. Gorgonzola!
you're up next... messerschmitt nose dive
into a parabola... kneeee-uh -
you can just hear the propeller like
a shark fin cutting air;
if poetry is anything like cinema is
that less is more -
it's people we're talking about, after all,
cattle, you can join the cattle throng
any time you want, i know i do,
no point being optimistic about
your individuality or the individuality
process you devise,
you have to be pessimistic,
the wildebeests are optimistic when together,
the tiger is... well, a tiger, alone -
predatory antics are scaled against
herding, with stampede the only recognisable
antic - but me, between predator and herd,
in a vulture group (committee) / vulture feeding
(wake), etc. add hyenas to that
and we're above parasites -
pocket-proof of a group of foxes never existed -
solitary musings i say, theirs' the wanderings -
but with examples like ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ, epic attempts,
you slowly begin to realise the un-importance
of your daily routine, the mundane reality
of it all, the lost excitement,
before you could **** out all the essence
of a little encounter, but when embarking
like Columbus to find only Jamaica you
end up finding three-continents and shrapnel
from the eastern face... well you miss
your spontaneity, your little consistency -
no due to atheism - it didn't **** off theology,
that remained constant, a fudge berg
in your imagination, it just killed off history -
we have pre-history and stones,
iron and brass in between, and then
we have 24 hour newsreels - who's going
to make up the time? we're taught
of being insignificant before we even decided
to become the next Audrey Hepburn -
****** shoo shoo they call us - ushers
of shoe-shine smiles - see what i mean
about trying to write epics in the 21st century?
enforced evolution, chicken nugget poetry,
not even a whole chicken, chicken ******* nuggets,
and yes, coarse words act as conjunction
lubricant, no offence, but they do -
so with bird-man telling us explosions are
the case for applauds and throwing
free bread around - poetry is all about
scavenger nibbles - haiku can almost be ranked
as a poetic technique equal to pun or metaphor -
we lost the narrative,
the narrative isn't coming back to
rejuvenate poetry - it's... gone!
or as they say where champagne is cheap...
chimp champs of the innuendo
wrote many more rocking-a-cradle poems
and never bounced a tennis ball
against the same wall
with the signature of the game stressed as
        i sat on a chair
        and cut my hair,
        without a mirror:
        kdump (linux) error, error.
how a little holiday into excess narration
proved the point of the everyday emphasis
once again spotted.

It’s not always a relationship that makes you feel empty and sad sometimes it’s life that hits you hard and makes you realize that YOU ARE NOT DOING ENOUGH // not enough to make your small circle happy // not enough to pack a bag and roam freely // not enough to order a stacker // not enough to make ppl affiliated to you happy // not enough to smile from heart // not enough to waking up to a thought that everything is fine // not enough to make your heart feel that you did good // not enough to be able to fix everything // I feel I’m losing this all slowly // the way you talk, the gap between your words kills me every time just hold on please I promise I will fix this, I have to fix this to make every thing enough and make you happy for real ♥️ I’m trying to be strong and it’s hurting me more but I’ll be standing strong next to you and make you happy I promise.

i discovered philosophy late, i guess the best age to lose your literate virginity to the subject is best asserted aged 21, prior to that i read, traded Linkin Park's hybrid theory for a favourite book of mine by Stendhal with a friend, spotted in a second hand bookstore near Trafalgar Sq., i read Sartre's human comedy where with unabashed delivery he copies the ending of James Joyce's Ulysses, a stream of consciousness where there is no punctuation, a river of words, a great metaphorical technique, forget punctuation, leave the reader making his own indentations... the book in question? iron in the soul, a mimic of Ulysses, absolutely no punctuation, again a metaphor of a maxim by Heraclitus... and you know what sort of heaven i believe in? a place were you can find how each reader punctuated the text, you can see what punctuation was used where, otherwise, all punctuation was missing - i need to find this library.

i know i can have an obstructive demeanour,
but i'm shoving these swear words in your
face like i'd be shoving you pictures of torture or
*******, ****'s for real, you can't be serious
to suppose seeing a correct spelling is worth
a f ** or mm mm mm something or other, can you?
a little bit of criticism goes a long way,
now that i found out that i'm part of the 1.8 million
threshold,
force of nature writing a sociology essay
plagiarising to beat the system of anti-plagiarism
on purpose, not that i'd be found out but that i
wanted to see how plagiarism-proof the system was,
i just cheated using the synonym principle,
and it does indeed exist, received a 1st plagiarising
someone else's work by being a grammatical plumber
or electrician, hell a barber or a hairdresser if you like!
fiddle a word here, fiddle a word here,
do the most obscene mindless regurgitation of theory
imaginable, yep, the synonym principle,
a bit like deep blue v. Kasparov, only i was smarter
than deep blue... the infinite diadems of language
as appropriated by individuation, no wonder this
phonetic encoding produced the omni- to which
everything was ascribed in that unit of connectivity
spelled g o d... Kant does indeed mention this, for about
40 pages he's stressing a simplicity, something that has
to be simple, something necessary and something
simple... some key phrases:
defined throughout all categories (praedikamente)
or quiet simply "unavoidable" predicaments (well
"unavoidable" because it's already apparent that a large
number of people prefer to kneel and mumble
the our father and desire a pope's pomp of attire),
a german word for fiction (erdichtung),
i still need to find out what scil. abbreviation means,
highest entity (ens summum),
highest thing would begin with res... summum
i.e. the sun,
                    i mean i could list all the examples, but what
a waste of time if you haven't read it yourself,
40 pages? give it about three hours, and oddly enough,
listening to Salmonella Dub's inside the dub plates
album... outside in the garden measuring adequate
light with the setting of the sun, i can get lost for hours,
perhaps adoration for this subjects stems from a lack of
care, or the simplest imaginable life, a life were
"reality" is unquestionable, in that you have so few problems
that you have to invent problems, metaphysics;
you didn't actually think my interest in this field is
purely pretentious? i find the hardest thing in written
philosophy is: a. disengagement from internalised cognitive
dialectics that makes Popper a bit like Heidegger
tongue-tied in an incompetent lack of persuasion
(i.e. anti-rhetorical) of their own arguments,
and b. the adjective, i mean, come on, pure reason?
what the hell is impure reason then? oh i know, a thousand
psychological profiles, you see the critique of impure
reason all the time under the curtains of our social endeavour,
criminals, news flash of horrific stories, all the ****** time...
for goodness sake Kant mocks malignant gossiping /
the socially acceptable form of lying as the least of your worries
that doesn't extend to mugging or stabbing you,
some might just now exclaim with a phew;
but 40 pages and what not, a horror movie scene...
a man walks into a supermarket,
puts a beer and a bottle of coke into his basket,
walks into the hard liquor isle, his cheap-*** whiskey isn't there,
he asks the shelf stacker if she could get a bottle
for him... so she goes to the storage room,
the man ends up waiting about fives minutes
looking at Sharon fruit, apples and roll-mops of
pickled herring, bread and t.v. magazines at a distance,
the woman comes back with a whole trolley of goods
that need to be stacked, but she says to him
that she needs to put on the security tag on the bottle
(standard procedure in English supermarkets),
and the man is like, huh? i'm going to buy it in a second
and you're telling me that you'll actually put on a
security tag on the bottle, just so another supermarket
employee will have to take off for absolutely no
******* reason? this is what routine does to you...
an elephant just walked through the room and you
only realised 10 minutes later after memory electrocuted
you for a snap reminder.

I couldn't wake up by a cappuccino today
Took me a red bull, one pink and purple stacker - from stop n shop. And a cup of coffee, Now I'm ******* my head off, hands are shaky, eyes tired, got more energy than an American stripper. And trying to ease down, just not happening. Like Chong said to cheech- You took the wrong stuff man, the wrong stuff,the wrong stuff. This bites!

The moon was almost a quarter til
when the cow didn't quite jump the moon
The little boy turned blue
when the cow became roadkill

Jack called Jill
Have you heard the news
Yes she said
It's all over Pox on chanel two

Little Bo go peek who loved to fleece his sheep
Was distraught about
the loss of Bovine

From the earliest dates
they were constant mates
Even gave him
the nickname of Quackers

But now he was gone
Left without a moo of a word
And his nicker was left
without a stacker

But Ole McDonald's was elelated
for it was beef patties on two sesame seed buns
Just as it had been designated

How sick and disgusting !
Said the little girl
with the red riding hood
For she was a vegetarian

silence broken
the words
are spoken
hidden rage
played up
on stage
fists now
clenched
no punch
held back
I'll attack
so pack
your bag
and make
a break
for it
I'll watch
you run
I'll stun
you with
my bite
my fight
I'm light
on my feet
you slacker
soul jacker
soul *******
shame stacker
fatal blow
I'll deliver
a show
so go
run for
your life
none knew
what you
could do
did do
so now
I'll let
you stew
before
I bid you
adieu

god... don't you just love
the ones with subtle ridicule reflexes
in speech?
   only half an hour ago
i was picking beer from
a supermarket open fridge,
testing it against my cheeck
for the proper temp.
when being asked by
   the shelf-stacker
        to pursue his venture
  into stacking: making the bottles,
by labels, aligned...
   well... i was actually dipping
my hand into the back of
the fridge that: upon pressing
against my cheek
    were, the proper temp.;
ah... the bottles...
   corona... mexican beer...
and i do wish i could carry
a knife, to then buy a lime,
   and shove it down the bottle neck,
like...
           the guy who died
from suffocating on an oyster...
drinking in public...
   you mean... england...
in an area where there was
a stabbing incident,
  on the pave that i walk...
and i'm alone...
walking the streets at night...
and i'm glug-glug-glug
halfway down a bottle a beer...
anti-social?!
        ****... lay-deez und grunts!
we've arrived at mars!
   you're welcome.
   if this doesn't sell, i already know
that i'm broke...
            but you can't exactly
call today, with this afternoon,
a normal day...
         my "cerberus" managed to find
a sparrow in the bushes...
   while cooking a prawn carbonara...
so i chased him to the end
of the garden and said: zostaw!
       maybe this writing is what it's
supposed to be...
          i can't manage to comprehend
what happened after...
it's not exactly chicken farming...
out of curiosity...
       ever held a dying sparrow
in your hand?
        ever tried the vain attempt of,
first: ensuring the cat dropped its
play-toy,
      secondly: ease a bathroom tap
and implore (unconsciously)
   for the bird to take a sip?
oh... i forgot... big people deal
     with watching old people die...
or maybe just the odd Cain
mad on introducing euthanasia laws...
because... did that *******
of a grandson ever listen to
his grandfather talk ******* for
an hour and hid a yawn?
       sure as ****, some of them made
it into safer hands than familial
ties would ever allow...
      death by a synthesis of ******...
or its equivalent...
          but did p'ooh bear nanny
ever get a visit fwom her
            p'ooh bear grandchild?
evidently post-mortem doesn't
allow "care" to be discussed in journalism...
see...
          i remember that
hamster i was fooled into dropping
believing it could fly...
   but this sparrow i held in
my hand...
           seeing it transition from
shock...
       closed eyes...
   to a momentary state of surprise...
eager to sip the water flowing down
the bathroom tap...
             come to think of it...
it might have drowned from
taking a sip...
       as you do...
               little into the lungs and...
****!
          but when i shouted the cat
to drop it...
                   a secondary excavation:
can't change that machine of
utility...
       no matter how much you feed
it... the natural impetus is still there...
yet in my hand... a dying creature...
  and it literally started a spasmatic
last-resort mechanisation of
its body...
               a choking effect is
probably the best way to describe it...
   it wasn't a mature sparrow,
god knows where the nest was
situated, but you could tell:
the beak... was still "fresh"...
      i.e. yellow...
          not bark stiff deep
brown mingling
                                         with grey...
the cat would have eaten it,
and i, oh so deperately wanted
to be a brooks hatlen...
    then i remembered the hanging...
ah yes... the pitiful life...
       plenty of them that are dead
who wouldn't think so...
       a sparrow dying in your hand
is no big thing...
       it's not an earthquake...
most certainly...
                  it's not even an attempt
to cry...
               it's unlike having petted
something that invokes
                 a loss of a part of you,
embedded in the animal...
      beside the sparrow...
                  and we seem to be on confessional
terms... sámāél...
     now i hold what you hold
in your right arm...
   the rite of passing: a birth, a life,
a marriage...
                            a death... and a wake...
albeit less within the constraints
for the care for man...
        but more: on the frivolous...
             jittery side of existential affairs...
sure as **** i burried the sparrow...
right next to where i burried
   my former night companion...
   having hacked off a piece of a tombstone,
having taken to use a shovel...
to actually invoke him
to set tone to a blooming plum tree...
   hard though...
holding such a trivial aspect of reality
in your hand...
        and watching it die...
     how does death even amount
to a conspiration, in such a microcosm
of a sparrow's body, beheld by a mere libra
of a hand...
                      with what i could hold
                                                    in my right?
i tended to,
        what expired...
          but upon seeing the agony:
i first wanted to see a quickened extinction
by crushing it with a stomp...
     but then i chanced an intimate
realisation of shared breath...
      no one really writes
poems about sparrows dying in their
hands...
                                   do they?
   apparently when death happens:
everyone is always elsewhere...
                        certainly those behind
typing desks.
   - because chickens i will eat
and i can ****...
              but sparrows?!
                            fowl eggs is one thing...
  but looking for sparrow eggs?!
             that's borderline sadism if
not, just that.
    - no!
        who has had
    a sparrow die in their hand?!

yesterday can feel like months
or even years away...

              all because you pounce
out of bed,
and begin an argument
about three glasses sitting
     on the sink...

   like it's a hoarder's genesis
to clutter...
     on the odd surmount -
it is a mother,
and i somehow grip to a patience...

but the whole thing is
shambles...
the original idea that allowed me
to get out of bed
like a kangaroo sinks...

insult after insult...
    this that and the other...
from a woman who doesn't see
what 0 hours contract has
done to working
in a supermarket...

   why are these people happy
doing 0 hour contracts?!
i sometimes see this person,
that person,
then some other person...
   doctors are supposed
to sign up to: being on call...
not supermarket
shelf stacker!

            i guess with writing i
know i'm doing something right...
hell... it's not exactly Stephen King...
but it's something...

three unwashed glasses
sitting on a sink, monetarily,
and i'm talking to a woman
feeling that i'm about to be castrated
by a ****...
          
                the ups and downs
of: unaffordable rents and
even more unaffordable housing...
****... social housing for men
about to start off?
single mothers, sure...
men?
either the streets or a tent
shanty town in a forest...
with a chance for eviction...

        yeah, men have it real bad,
but we're the ones who
have to come up with
existentialist solutions,
meanings, purposes,
a woman can oven bake
    the meaning of existence in
9 months...
which is focal around,
but one argument:
continuity...
     i have to sit here,
and think of something outside
the realm of giving
birth and securing
the fluidity of a healthy economy
buying, things,
that women would buy...

i have it easy...
any given day...
the troubles of 9 months
over 90 year of idiotic
bewilderment...
    and the bewilderment doesn't
even last 90 years,
since another bunch
of ******* are on their way...
men have it easy...
yeah... reads like a quote
from the ******* Bible...

and how much of feminism is
borrowed from
horror sci-fi?
the whole... alien thing?
how much?
i'm guessing pretty much all of it...
perhaps there's the postnatal
depression...
but then there must be a
pregnancy psychosis of being...
hijacked...
             yes... hijacked...
but never pampered...
just ego-****** incubating a fetus...

nice one...
      
i could work in a shop,
believe me...
my highest ambition was to work
in a music shop...
but guess what?!
   only food shops, cafes,
mobile phone outlets
and shoe shops are running the market...

so i say to this woman...
like brick walls over paintings?
no?
  how about the sound of silence...
turn the radio off...
the free aspect of any
production of art...
        some things are just:
necessary...

sudoku no. 10,197...
i love it when one of the grids is left
blank...
    you can easily note
which final numbers fit into all 9...
3, 8, 6, 7, 9, 1, 2, 4, 5...
  
like that 20th century dialectical
question that seems to be the only one
that still exists...
the Rolling Stones, or the Beatles...
neither, Aerosmith...
why? because i saw them live
in Hyde Park...

or from the 80s...
    Depeche Mode or the Cure?
i also saw Depeche Mode in Hyde Park...

beside the point...
what was my morning thought?
ah...
   i don't know how i managed
to keep it in my subconsciousness
without it slipping into
the unconscious and forgetfulness...

a funny thought...
i know why i dream so little...
or hardly at all...
   my capacity to dream has
been eroded with my
treating the faculty of memory
like a recurring movie -
this whole memory cinema...
or cinema of the memory...
the fact that i remember
as much as i do,
and yes, selectively,
      none the less the details,
could imply why i do not
have a brain that has evolved
to find meaning in
  dreams, per se -
i.e. dreams for the sake of dreaming...

i hear of the Anglophone high status
of dreaming encounters...
how the Anglophone people
are master architects of dreams...
maybe i'm not evolved to become
an architect of dreams,
but i'm pretty sure that,
the nature of your unconscious
doesn't allow you access
to being, in charge...

                      how can someone be
in charge of dreaming?
     i've heard that somewhere...
which makes more sense to do away
with the faculty of dreaming...
riddled with Freudian easy
access to ******* or counter-*******
symbolism...

i'm even thinking as far as:
dreams are the remains of the consciousness
of a *****...
wacky! well no **** Sherlock!
but i'm guessing that i don't dream
as much as other people,
only because
    my memory faculty has overtaken
my capacity to dream...

memory is a cinema for me,
    and perhaps my exposure to excesses
of memory, have eroded my
physical need to dream...

  sure, i don't consciously chose what
to remember,
  but... i can't entertain the argument
that i unconsciously chose what
i remember...
                  at any given moment of
recollection...
   that's not how educational rubric learning
works before sitting down
an exam.

how can i consciously chose what
to remember... when...
even if i try...
    i am capable of forgetting what,
i "thought" i would remember...
and receive a grade F on
   an essay from history about
the crusades?

i, believe, once had the sole
ambitions of either becoming
a bus driver:
never learned to drive a car,
but ride a horse?
sign me up...
   squeeze the flank
with the right heel,
tug the bit (that piece
of equipment,
in between the proper
tooth alligned missing chew;
with the bit...
horses are always make
a placebo to imitate chewing)
left...
              heels pressing on
the right side of the horse's canvas
of torso...
the hands gravitating toward
the left with the head...
the horse moves left....
  i can ride a horse...
god help me should i ever
drive a car...
what thrill is there behind
speeding in a car
or on a motorbike,
dislocated soul missing
the prancing horse?
i guess driving a car,
is about as pointless
as attaching a leash
to a cat, thinking it's a horse,
or a string to a butterfly,
thinking it's a ******* kite!
all i ever wanted was
to occupy a music shop...
you know what
system of a down did
that all the punk bands of the mainstream
missed?
   reducing the attention span
of the listener
to under 3 minutes;
genius.
      my ambition to become a bus-driver
came with,
bus route no. 5...
                   and that's where it
ended...
since i vaguely remember
every taxi journey i ever took...
not like bus no. 86 from romford
to stratford, dropping me off
to school...
    very important people in
"our" midst...
          tall *******,
dwarf mothertfuckers,
rabbits, hybrids,
      schizoid outliers...
just your usual tabloid press...
you really have to be a *******
****, to ******* a paraoid schizophrenic...
akin to?
   imagine:
left in limbo,
of being forever: suspect...
on a minority report
      potentiality list of:
             dormant tragedy...

"voices", what "voices"?
         permanent suspect...
   that substance called the ease
of thought, with which
one has the ease to think?
it sometimes
               can become akin to...
less a bullet,
        and more shrapnel...
who the **** is appeasing who...
first they tell me
   they kept the prisons,
then they told me
they got rid of the asylums...
         and...
the orthodox chronic madmen
are readily running free,
ensuring mild psychiastric conditions
are being exfoliated out
of proportion?
  now, go back,
and tell the mild symptom
sufferers that there's a hierarchy
of madness...
   psychotic pharaoh sits on the top...

but i acknowledge, in the least,
that there's a gradation
of the experience of thought,
the placebo solipsist: normal...
   am i a tailor,
or am i a ******* butcher?
take your pick within the confines
of tabloid press lack of
verbiosity, eloquence,
or the general standard of etiquette,
confined to a standard aesthetic...

     did they **** the prize
bull ed gein... or did they keep him
alive for the better part of 20 years,
extracting cultural inspiration
from him? nay, 40 years later
by my best estimate!

to have to pander to the "natural"
sequence of events...
abnormalities of youth...
so there are no outliers...
or the outliers need to be shamed...
tabloid bullied...
until... another takes to
extreme measures...
but the retards can ******* in
public, because mommy & daddy
decided to have an "accident"
child in their mid-years,
only to increase their income
with the ****** chequers...

         pass me the blunt knife,
i feel like scratching my face...
it's just... just so plain ******* itchy!

so i'd say: wanna play with
the big boys?
the medium of thought...
and the medium...
where there's both
the disinhibited will,
and the shrapnel of will...
what no one would dare
call remnants of identity,
rather: remnants of the "ego"...

      i'm already strapped
to a tabloid assortment of tabloid spew,
the perfect suspect...
   seemingly:
only english schizoids are
tender, loving, creatures!
   the rest of us...
are...
  forever, suspect.
      no crime was committed...
unless...
******* in an alley on a friday
night, when all the brits get wasted
in essex is worth being handcuffed
and scream at by some boppy...

                                 well...
knife crime...
m'eh...
          do i have a face
of a person, that does,
                     or should, give, a ****?

see... madness is in no way
related to i.q.,
   stupid people go mad,
smart people go mad,
what matters is,
how you tap into the madness,
and what's left
to relieve you from
ever having to perform
a disinhibited act of
spontaneity, akin to homocide...

sane people perform more
grevious acts than madmen...
given that they perform them
with: premeditation...
with no: outside-inner
3rd party influence of, "voices"
to excuse themselves with...

   no, i will not be prevented from
being fascinated by
schizophrenics...
      fat chance of that happening...
i'd love to spend
a summer at the broadmoor hospital;
for once,
i might have a chance to
meet some interesting people...

conscience:
be careful what you wish for...

what? that and reading
sh'ight akin to the tabloid daily mail...
and no the sunday times?

why wouldn't i be fascinated
by schizophrenics?
when i'm entrenched bilingual?
i thought we were exchanging
ideas in the same currency
of metaphors?

       what's the difference
between being ridiculed...
                      and being patronißed?
- the entire basis for man
exacting law,
   was founded upon
extracting vectors of judgment,
                     via a thesaurus...
synonyms to some,
antonyms to others...
                 pedantic quests for
                          others...
             depends what you might
need a blunt knife for,
depends what you might need
a sharp knife for...
   and there's a difference...
     last time i heard...
a jihadi john wasn't using a sharp
knife to behead someone,
never mind using an axe...
he needed a blunt knife...
something akin to:
spreading butter on a warm
                                   slice of toast...

one might suspect...
what cancer?
   ever looked at a tree riddled
                      with mistletoe?
"voices"...
what an obscure term...
to deem ego-shrapnel
        a foreign entity of sorts...
in the multiple-form
of the varying symptom...

        again: even if you manage
to control this symptom...
forget it...
you're forever suspect,
    riddled by a minority report...
of the 0.1%
of the population...
the rest?
  too busy to walk into
a nightmare,
let alone dream out a counter-,
an inhibition,
a waiting game...
with enough time...
to watch the day-to-day
          modern suburban gothica.
          
i only had two dream jobs...
either a bus-driver...
or...
     someone working in
a music shop...
   like: good ******* luck...
if either of these will ever
come into fruition;
more like:
supermarket
shelf-stacker...
   but not... a tabloid-press
columnist...
                                    phew!

you know you're a part of
the intelligence community
when your
computer... spontaneously
"updates" itself...
and what you have been
writing
becomes lost and you can't
access the darfts
on a website...
because that's like teasing
prophecy and what's to pass...
it's just a shameful waste
to not give public the access
but what probably has
to remain: pseudo-Vatican-ish...
for no reason whatsoever
other than:
most people don't need
to be granted this thinking...
or idea-making...
it's not like
a supermarket stacker
would care that much
about gravity...
hurts my concern for productivity
more than anything:
seeing words i wrote
erased but somehow stored...
"somewhere"...
           but i breathe words...
so seeing them wiped off a canvas
should be a welcome measure:
i just fed a decent amount
to AI:
maybe this is a second tier
of communication with the entity:
of what became man and god
and the deus ex machina
**** in machina
and invertedly: perhaps the diabolical
shame of... something...
i don't care.                 usually a computer prompts
you with regards to shutting down
and updating the software...
but in the instance of Mr Houdini
Google Chrome book... apparently not...
because chatGPT is already bigger than
Google... and google loves to steal
ideas and is ******* evil!