the i.q. (intelligence quotient) is hardly representative,
you can bishop-streak as a tourist to Giza and get
the same result... quotient etymologically speaking
is simply a quote, statistically represented -
meaning it only gathered answers from
the μ - median, mean, and meridian, also
a fond mention of mode: we all wish to sleep as peacefully
as the dead, necromancy with the pepper & salt shakers
for the fancy... stirrup hunch to giddy up,
and that makes two of us qualm bitter with
                                                    the grey matter
unexposed in chess tournaments.
i.q. (intelligence quotient) v. i.i. (intelligence inclusiveness):
that too.. statistics means a lot of autism
and many tiger mommies... preferably with surname Chang....
bright kid / always the dummies -
make that five years after the the show,
show them bullied... n'ah, you wont.
meaning the only thing included is
a pyramid and competitiveness, rather than shared
genius - which is hard to come by -
yes, the inclusiveness bit of the Rubik's cube solved
like Pavlov's tongue and the palette of a dog
given Sumerian cuisine to slobber over
when ingesting a tablespoon of cinnamon as the
other educated guess: the educated joke, universities
are famous for them being practised.
thus μ and the statistician's consonant... constant...
three tiers of synonymous bishops making up one
cardinal - intelligence is well enough quotient's worth
and the pyramid for a competitive streak of further events...
but such intelligence performed as example among
children doesn't qualify others to share the oncoming demise...
we need intelligence of an inclusive nature,
not a statistical correspondence with economists dodging
hard questions with quick investment answers...
we need people to tell the difference between
inclusiveness on the plural scaling of being a part of,
rather than an exclusiveness on the plural scaling of not being
a part of (alter: an exclusiveness on the solipsistic slave-scaling
of simply da sein - i.e. being there) -
i get the pronoun ambiguity, whenever there's no i involved
and it's purely a thing, everyone in the factory asks for the
Schindler's List - whether or not people are organic or
prosthetic(s) extending into a network of parasite or host
economy projects, and people ask those questions;
meaning? people are more likely to dismiss the idea of
a soul (an indestructible part of themselves, whether
contemporary or far fetched in terms of: ahead - Kant lives on
from the 18th century, plastic surgery will make others like you
take up the augmentation many decades later... there is always
something indestructible about you... it's called recycling
in the transference of physics, or metaphysics, the soul is like
an atom... it's indestructible... but your ego isn't... your ego
has no correlative support of the soul - your soul is an
indestructible unit, prone to gravity e.g., but your ego is prone
to the more pervasive moral force, which gravity isn't
a part of in term of monotheist glue... namely conscience...
the indestructible part of your isn't a self-conscious Jungian
jargon bit watered with control that you're aware of...
the soul, the unit of indestructibility is the unconscious bit...
which is why we continue to have actors, poets, plumbers,
bus drivers... you can't destroy the soul in the collective
unconscious sense of things... the indestructible element of
your being continues regardless of your wish to sell
out and profit or take an overly conscious case of
being aware of conning the selfish gene stipend on Wall Street...
it still bites back at your **** for showing off your yacht
rather than your Mongolian yurt.
the soul is real... not in an individualised sense of things...
the individual is completely destroyed... constantly revised
via recycling... a lot of Hinduism makes his plainer but
more mythical and less hoarse in its reality of death -
the soul is a continuum, the indestructible capacity of
preservation, preservation rather than evolution -
anti-Darwinism? the preservationists... apply poetic rhyming
to ideas and the truth is ******* boring - poetry can decipher
GRAND PLATINUM ORNATE GALAS OF STATE AFFAIRS
by looking at the suffixes... and rhyming them together
getting the toad's ******* of October Fest's burps...
it is time to learn how to write poetry outside of poetry...
it's time to write testaments, it's time to write biblical accounts
of our lives... there's not time for pretty verse...
it's at this precise moment when poetry has become too
technical in theory and mundane in practice...
use this zenith moment to read language across all genres...
and never applying it for a poetic expression...
look! the paupers are numerous! but these paupers are
octopus handy in picking your ten pockets!
to have reached the plateau of Darwinism as having to preserve...
to have reached the penultimate affair of the prone
destructibility of identity, personality, character (Thesaurus Rex's
RA! or the complete synonymous archive of ego) - meaning
that the soul was a plumber you never were given
the Saturday of the appointment, and your chronology being
that of a Ford Automobile salesman in some showroom in Peckham.

People ask me all the time what my major is, what I’m going to do with my degree, as if that somehow defines me, somehow is a mold into which I should fit. As if being a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer, a mechanic, or a nurse makes me real; as if calling myself a statistician, a technician, a psychiatrist, an ophthalmologist, a zoologist, a gynecologist, an herbologist is any more definitive than calling me by name. Because somehow the letters AA, BA, MFA, LDS, EE, DD, or PHD are supposed to make me who I am.

I cannot be defined by the classes I took or the papers I wrote or the tests I failed. I am far more complex than that and I refuse to be satisfied with a label, so when you ask me what I’m doing in school, what I’m going to do afterward, and I tell you I’m gonna teach home economics, don’t look at me like I’ve gone off the deep end, like I’m wasting my brains and wasting my time and wasting my money, like I’m negating every feminist victory and reinforcing female stereotypes. Don’t look at me like I’m never gonna make a living, never gonna make anything of myself, because it’s my brains and my time and my money, my living and my self.

And how else can I be, how else can I fit my definition if I give in to the pressures of you, the pressures of him, the pressures of them, the pressures of it, and do what someone else thinks is right for me because they want me to be defined by what I do instead of who I am. I am a girl who snores when she’s sick and hiccups after she eats. I’m the girl who dated your youngest son and had a crush on your older brother. I’m the wild woman in love with her mountain man. I’m the girl that is sometimes eloquent and often awkward and twice as likely to hug you as shake your hand. I am the adult who eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a tall glass of ice cold milk and the Floridian, who if offered a slice of pea-can pie would say “Don’t you mean pe-cahn?”

I’m the girl who loves to cook and cooks to love, and if you don’t know what I mean by that think of how a homemade meal makes you feel and then get back to me. Sometimes I’m the girl who crochets and is learning to knit, but I don’t know if I like it yet. I am a victim of the techie generation and I am helplessly addicted to facebook and youtube and myspace and stumble and twitter and flicker and all of that stupid stuff. I am a ****** who loves movies and has to get there early because it’s just not the same if I miss the previews and I’m the girl who loves to eat but hates to exercise and always complains about her flab.

I am the daughter of a sweet southern woman and a hard working ex-Marine and I am the sister to the brother who is almost taller than me and the granddaughter of the four most amazing grandparents you will ever have the chance to meet. I’m a family and consumer science major who loves biology and algebra and is fascinated with the manipulation of words and sometimes sings a song or two and used to play the flute and is practicing piano. I’m the girl who works in the weight room and turns on the light when you come to play racquetball in court number three and mops up those scuffs you left because you didn’t wear non-marking shoes. I’m the neighbor at your apartment who’s always sewing late at night and parks her car in your space.  

I’m a best friend, a sister from another mother, a daughter, a niece but not a nephew, one day an aunt, a roommate, a one-time lover, a student, sometimes a teacher, a cousin, an employee, a visitor, a customer, a someday-degreed-and-lettered member of society, but before that, during that, and after that, I am Jennifer Marie Cassell.

Charlie and D sitting in a tree, Henry VIII comes along, chops down the tree.*

part of me constantly and perversely anticipates
what Islam holds dear, the cult of the moon
rather than the sun - sleeping nudges of inquiry
and reminiscence of Freud rather than this constant
pulverisation of scientific safety-nets -
the sun and the scam of diet - Narcissus myth
all too apparent, too self-conscious to feed
the beauty, laboratory type beauty,
statistician's paradise - sun and skin cancer collective,
i'm not an Arab, and i never will be,
but this sort of weather and jet-stream excess isn't
exactly helping either - Einstein might have
saved you from exacting the thought process
(never experiment with it, never)
behind Newtonian cause & effect, but this ****
isn't going away, and you won't be exactly barnacle
jumping mad with Jack & Jill if you voice your
concerns; for all that urbanity the village life
is having a comeback - hello brick, hello tree,
hello tomorrow: the day of never-be -
the Spaniards had a second try at an inquisition
via Gibraltar - the Scots sailed to Brussels -
the village life is having a comeback -
the Americans are hoarding guns prior to enacting
scenes from Bastille Sq. with the guillotine -
they don't know it yet, but they're hoarding guns
to topple the government over - elsewhere
a bunch of Palestinians were throwing stones
at bullseyes for a fluffy toy in a theme park.

There was once a juxtaposition of a silent mathematician,
hand in hand with a melody called fiction.
Fighting to be free, yet fleeing from fruition.
Unure in his conditionm, he is guided by her transition.

      This was never going to work.

Fiction's as ignorant as his judgement was missing.
She was vexed by his logic, and his rate of attrition.
Suddenly she see's him far from volition,
Whilst he hears something new - designing definition.

     The record plays softly

Finally he understands to feel free from inquizition,
is about more than just logic. It's about his ambition
He returns from his audition
Dressed well with suspicion

     Blood on his hands - the endeavour of reason.

Now filled with guilt, this once honourable statistician,
is dynamic and pretentious, it's impossible to miss him.
Because through a bad combination of radio emission,
sounds a shriek from the crowd's world's worst composition.

the scientists joined ranks with artists who, with un-complimentary depictions of humanity, like the weavers of the bayeux tapestry, decided to paint queens as ******; the scientists came along with monkeys instead of jealous and shaky hands... that’s like so totally debased, who said i was flat-nosed by a klitschko forearm uppercut and hairy to boot? you want a baboon **** smear with my buttocks to suit a smile on that observation? i’ll just fudge pack that **** between my baboon cheeks for the paintbrush and use your face as the adequate ‘smiles all round’ canvas - gentler than a baby's bottom in sinatra's cheek to cheek take 5.*

no, i wouldn’t trust islam in the mouth of an egyptian,
nor in the mouth of the copt,
no more than i’d trust the conversation
of a prince of egypt with god in hebrew with god’s friendliness,
which isn’t to say that god didn’t say: my people are suffering,
the pharaonic lineage are building pyramids!
i need to punish their leaders to redeem the people,
wait a minute, why would the hebrew building those architectural
monstrosities hijack my servility?
ah i know, i’ll just have to wait for the one to be crucified.
a prince talking the language of slaves...
must have had tea parties with the stonemasonry class
of fanning those bothersome flies away ponces.
but as i was doping myself on the ultimate escapism
watching the gambler (2014),
i spotted this one line that broke me:
this heavily addicted gambling professor of english
who could only shakespeare and albert camus
came across a grey matter criticism: ‘but that’s
only a subjective observation, we’re all bestseller authors!’
no... and objectivity is so overrated,
i mean it implies being one among the many
talking as the many,
there’s no heraclitus in objectivity - where’s the flow
in objectivity, moving from one particular to another
signalling artistry whether that’s the dumb statistician
clothed in the baseball player looking lost in the faded out
lad culture missing in the concert hall of talk,
and the basketball player more interest in quicksilver words
pixelated, and that longing blonde who inspired the english
professor to peddle-stool her to the position of the faded gem
of hopes of the carbonated water of a writer?
speaking objectively would only provide an inactivity,
a sort of ant’s **** hole: well we’re all here... how’s that?
good enough? no! no, it’s not good enough!
there is no heraclitean river in objectivity -
it’s no good enough to feed subjectivity of seeing many different faces
going about their daily business and feeling nothing of yourself
making a choice to pick something out... there must be
some sort of kantian per se in all this.
so then i stumbled into tescos, watched the first gangsta gathering
in the car park and in the shop i talked to the would-be cashier
about those failing auto-checkout machines
that now ask for ‘approval needed’ on bottles of whiskey
and five pence plastic carrier bags...
‘you type in 0 and still the machines want approval,’
‘silly, isn’t it? they were so innovative once,’
‘you’re a hoodie with an accent? where you from?’
‘st. petersburg, lived there for a month and came back a changed man,
i was caged and told to not try and get into a nightclub
to see the unappreciative beauties that couldn’t never cry at
an opera like la triviata,’
‘must have been terrible,’
‘it was, i heard of the russian-chinese axis of evil pact
and drank non-alcoholic kbac!’
then at home i picked up a newspaper and started to kinda reap
a weeping over the 3rd intifada next to
an article about how an american auntie sued her 8 year old
nephew for breaking her wrist at the blackjack table
with the stakes as high as $127,000.
it made sense at the time to be sufficiently coordinated enough
to drink and read, which always adds up to: sermo potator potor non sum.
so i thought about as to why the 30 silver pieces
sold jesus christ into a slavery of a very different kind -
the “intellectual” one at the pearly gates where he greets
all the ***-kissers with the church pay-check back-lingo,
even though human history would be better off
without a few hours of the last supper morphed into a sunday
service for 2000 years... when joseph would have seen
the little babylonian kid do something monstrous on the last sabbath,
which would also be akin to that famous opinion section of the newspaper:
yes comrade frankenstein (fickle think shine, alternate spelling of the columnist's surname), capitalism is unshakeable,
there is no alternative to capitalism...
but i thought there was an alternative to the marshall plan?
did i miss something - am i really supposed to stand “outside of all space
and time” in classical philosophical practice? i can’t do that with the slogan:
there’s no alternative to the marshall plan! yes there is, communism.
the syrians will tell you that in a few years, fingers crossed,
no foreign investors will be able to impregnate the resurgence
of civilian trust within monochromatic ethnicity;
but of course i’m getting ahead of myself with hopes.

Left Brain

I am not a scientific test or analysis, a mathematician
or an algorithm. I am not a linear graph or a statistician.
I am the reason that you can colour inside the lines,
why you don't fall off your bicycle anymore and never forgot
how to ride it. I am the force behind your smiles-
eighteen different smiles. The reason you can hold a book
or ball and learn what to do when it's in your hands.
I take credit when you remember the name of your childhood
babysitter. Thanks to me, you can play with jigsaw puzzles
or cards or checkers or dominoes. And thank me too
for your vocabulary. You don't necessarily remember
just how it is you came to remember sequences like getting dressed
or driving, decoding or analysing. I am the reason
you can probably look at someone and learn their name.
I suppose you could complain about how I dictate your days.
How you get up, go to sleep, lend you the seconds and minutes
and hours and months and years. I am the one who taught you
time. I'm also there for you to know that it runs out.

Right side**

I am no dancer or artist made for television. Instead,
I'm the vibration you feel in the tips of your fingers
when  you make a toast and ***** your wineglasses.
Those eighteen smiles you can smile? I gave you the gift
of being able to count your crayons while you are smiling.
But it's more than box sets of crayons and toasts.
I am the reason you want to be. Everything you yearn for-
every penny you ever tossed into a fountain, every star
you have wished on, and every eyelash. I am the reason
why you prefer wearing blue to green, and why you may
fill a blank page with words for what you want, how you feel.
I am the excitement that waits for you at Christmas
or reunions. When you saw the sky full of stars, felt snow
or went in the sea for the first time, I gave you that gasp.
I am your eyes on the world. Blame me for your wanderlust.
I am not time. I am how you know sometimes
that there is no way you'll ever have enough of it.

pop a balloon will you, they think i'm a Jehovah's witness not wanting to celebrate this ******* farce... last time i popped a balloon was on Guy Fawkes' night, i went into fireworks shop and asked for a firework, got turned away, walked into another shop that sold balloons, bought a packed, went back to the fireworks shop with the balloon pufferfish... the ****** didn't pop with a smack of the hand, it had some additive in it to strengthen the membrane... a clown parade came after.

i'm 30 today, got a call from my grandparents
wishing me a: hoo ha what not, encore encore,
health and more health -
conversation with grandmother was fine,
but then my grandfather got me depressed,
the lecture about how he'd have been
working 15 years to date my year in passing,
post-war veteran, he was the one asking
for candy from the ᛋᛋ men - *herr, bite bonbon,
i spent many years with him, walking, talking,
the graveyard was our oyster, our pearl,
we became hyenas of the graves -
but on this day i got hit by a steam-train knuckle,
started thinking about getting ****** right away:
'look, i live in a society where poetry is
under-appreciated, even un-, there are no
rewards in this field, what was the point of educating
myself if all this poetry is, quiet literally state
sponsored? it's pathetic! i would love to come and
see you but i will not use your money to get over
there, i have an addiction to pursue, including
a quasi-career. poetry has been hijacked by
oompa-loompas, the kids they own the internet,
i guess because that's the easiest way to describe
any germination, in poetry you can't be a Mozart
boasting about your genius aged 8...
Mozart was a trained monkey, poetry requires
experience, heartbreak, the gritty bits & bobs,
sure, you can learn all the techniques, write
technical poetry, but from such poetry i'll be
reduced to an english student, spotting poetic
techniques like a statistician spotting trends,
ball-breaking expressions.'
and with that i realised, i wanted to be a bohemian,
but bohemian also means urban, means
other people's company... i can't do that,
i'm purposively lodged in outer suburbia,
there's too much Wordsworth in me to claim
bohemian blue / cool; leave me with deer foxes
hedgehogs and a Noah's ark array of birds...
i can't do the stink, the claustrophobic coagulation
of human sweat... or as i once suggested:
better celibate than mere piston and ******
                                                        "i­mmaturity"...
i **** like crossing the street, look two times each
way and mind the heart...
i can drink a 70cl bottle of whiskey a day...
only because i'm alone, in company the mood is
quiet different, you're not suggesting alcohol as having
calories, you use it as an inhibitor of social insecurities,
medically speaking from my perspective?
sedative... sedative... sedative... i don't know
any barbiturates pharmacist Nietzsche didn't leave
any clues in his writing, what a shame, back
when writing had to be printed and had to have all
kinds of mannerisms of respectability - what ponce.
by the way... you're not actually getting fooled
for those illiterate scraps of the Nag Hammadi library?
word of goat more like... look around you!
the large majority of us are literate, you don't actually
think the Nag Hammadi library is sacred?
even Bruce... ah ****, Caitlyn is having second thoughts
about the "wisdom" implied by St. Thomas' Gospel...
but yeah... 30... ooh... time to bite my nails...
career not off the ground... ooh... what to do what to do...
have a drink and reiterate:
                                               can't do bohemian,
can only do rustic (suits me)...             civilising wieśniactwo -
bo jestem z miasta... ah... bo jestem z miasta...
to widać i słychać i czuć...
                                                alter! hey **, dawaj alter!
bo jestem ze wsi...                         niby widać
i            słychać              i czuć (na grzbiecie mam a pigglet)!
            ah then piękny mish-mash duo-baritone, sz,
                   no no, prawie Tuwim Opera!
hey! don't come running to me, a 12 year old immigrant
said that the majority of polish migrants in england
create a village atmosphere... now that's masochistic
racism - last night i was laughing during a televised
geography lesson... doesn't get better than that in terms
of birthday presents.

So I got caught up in life like so many other stiffs.
So I work two jobs. So I'm
twenty-three. Halfway dead, quarter-way dead -
Percentages and figures surmised by a
fictional statistician in some far off laboratory
wearing a handsome tweed sweater
despite the heat, helping to contain his
paunch.

So doctors have told me beer will **** me.
So they advise that I not indulge in any illegal
substances. We do not debate the validity of law. The
role of fear in today's culture. Hysteria. So I'm on antidepressants.
So I'm a candidate for pharmaceuticals. So I drink when
I can, which is just about every day. So I had a problem in
the past, so I spent a month locked away. So I'm not taking
a class. So I'm just about white. So I share a room with Phil
and a house with five other young men. So I had *** with
a girl I pretty much just met. So my drugs are right next to my bed.
So my *****'s *****. So I'm a brother and a son.

So I'm my own man.

Crooked teeth and definitions
I find you in secure conditions
Releasing all my inhibitions
Each encounter, like new auditions
Sleeping with the apprentice of my clinician
He was my latest edition
His voice like a musician's
and mine like a statistician's
I spoke in black and white compositions
with timed intermissions
and subtle transitions
that flowed through suppressed suspicions
stemming from little competitions
A heart like a mathematician's
and a mind, selfish, like a politician's
the Apprentice and the Clinician
fell in love with repetition.

The World lays its exaggerated, broken illusions of who I'm supposed to be
on the weary waves of my brain. I find myself torn between
my superfluous existence and the struggle of a mind craving tranquility.

The World lifted the veil and I can see the nightmare
of what we subjectively define as reality being poured into glasses,
we drink it to quench our thirst, polluting the magnanimous beauty
of our holy souls.

The World whispers its ***** secrets into me,
I no longer see what I want to see,
instead I float with the current, swept with the rest of similarly confused souls,
ready to merge into the sea of Self Loathing and Misery.

The World no longer paints my dreams in colours, they are no longer relevant,
everything is black and white just to further spite my confusion.
Dichotomy is the only answer
to the myriad of questions flooding my curiosity.

The World tells me I'm worthless and I am.
I accept your gentle embrace,
I revel in my own meaninglessness, a nobody screaming to no one.
I will never amount to anything and my life is no more
than a grain of sand in your vast desert.

The World tells me I no longer matter, I don't.
My gray matter is only a chunk of rotting flesh waiting
to be embraced by your mercy, death.
Even these abstract ideas, thrown around in filigree don't matter,
after all they only perpetuate the illusion of me.

The World I am no longer myself and I believe it.
I am the product of your words, the spitting image of your broken physique,
whenever I look in the mirror I see you.
None of these thoughts are mine, they're all yours, beaten into me
over a century, thousands of years  of evolution and here I stand
complete in your image.

The World tells me to get perspective so I do.
I see myself as a caricature, hunched over these blank pages
pretending I know what I'm writing about.
A heavy sigh leaves my body and  I can't help but laugh at my own ridiculous, petty  self.
I take a step further back and I watch myself watching myself,
One idiot looking at the first one, laughing. I turn my head and there is an infinity
of 'myself'', all of them cracking up.
It's pathetic because I am the one
drowning in my own mediocrity
while I find myself laughing to infinity.
Perspective my ***.

Hey World, I'm writing this super poem for you.

I'm writing this super poem with my life, everyday when I go to work
and 'pick' my dreams away.

I'm writing this super poem with an exaggerated sense of importance
because you are all so important to me.

I'm writing this super poem with super ink and super time because
clearly, absolutely, surely, convincingly I spend every nano second
worshiping your infinite grace and surreal qualities.

I'm writing this poem with super confusion because the fusion
of your muse with my poetics can only scramble together
stubs of rhyme and rhythm, repetition comes naturally
when you teach me that empathy means sympathy for the Machine.

I'm writing this super poem to praise your ultimate super creation, the Machine.


Machine, whose arms are molded to lovingly wrap themselves around me.
The right arm, religion and school strips me bare until I'm left servient,
ready to praise the left one, politics and consumerism.

Machine, whose eyes are never closed, gaze into the vastness of our beings
and swallow the forests of our souls. They are always on the look for more,
always vigilant and never ever ever satisfied.

Machine, whose arteries are the railroads, roads,
infested with locomotives, cars speeding towards their own meaningless end,
blowing and honking their horns
for they can't see through the thick veil of oozing smog.

Machine, whose veins are the internet, complex networks of web
trapping millions of disillusioned shards as they desperately try
to define their own humanity.

Machine, whose brain is capital. The almighty dollar, euro, pound, yen, ruble,
all rushing towards banks to ****, sweat, ***, ******,
birthing interest, famine, debt and helplessness.

Machine, whose soul is war, greedily consuming lives
to satisfy the eyes, arteries, veins and  the brain.
It's all in vain when death becomes a statistician, tragedy is numbed by the number
and the never ending slumber continues.

Machine, whose everything became my everything,
I can only find myself at ease when I please
with the entirety of my being.


I'm writing this super poem under the shades of a beat generation
because I find it resonates well with my vibrations
and I'm crawling, crawling, crawling towards your acceptance,
clawing, clawing, clawing through everything I am.

Hey World, I'm writing this super poem because I am tired,
beaten, broken by the endless charades you create
while I try to melt into the Sun.

the maxim? well, if you don't like my game, i'll just take my bucket and spades and go to another sandpit to play my game... oh don't worry, you're famous and necessary and acknowledged and c.c.t.v shy. known by the tax office and the home office... sure, you're famous there, and necessary there... with me? something grey, something resembling a square... i'm not even going to **** and **** on you to get to fame, too much dignifying things came my way to wonder about that; i'd love your job as a bus-driver though, i'd love any job to be honest, but every single job just reminds me of school, and none are on offer to remind me of university - better faux pas and loose it all, than gain something belittling and a statistician's daydream of getting to be aged 80: as was the day than the concern for being mortal, was acknowledged by seeing fame revealed that those administering mortality were interpreted as apathetic wrongly: no: got nothing to lose.*

it sometimes happens, you walk into the toilet,
lift the toilet seat up, and just sit on it...
you're simulating the idea that you'll never **** or
take a **** in heaven, a moth flies in, a cat sniffs your head,
the people on television look oh so nice and pampered,
but there you are, sitting on a toilet with no **** to **** out...
so the admiring you comes out... this is the room where
a tapeworm (had i one) wrote my biography? well, it
must be! the common concern for relief on the toilet is
like the unlikely catacombs relief of "great" men...
me on Napoleon's throne, Napoleon of my toilet...
the same **** came out... some alcoholic looked into a mirror
while lifting a glass: bad results,
a few days of nightmare ensued (he never expected
the image to say: i need company) - drink and talk
is fatal - but of all the addictions, alcohol feeds you
enough calories to become super active.                
as i once said: the toilet seat the only throne there is...
you imagine ******* out a million dead, when,
actually, the supposedly million dead
are stuck to the television... but still there you are,
sitting on the toilet, downing a whiskey,
admiring the surroundings: why, a mighty reinterpretation
of the Niagara Falls... as some hate the Marquis,
i read a de Sade book on the tube and find
a bunch of girls giggling...
     encore! papa don't preach! papa don't
     preach!
                       so you're just sitting in
the toilet, there's a horde of dead people
titled: your ****...
                                and oh god it looks oh so
******* pretty!
                               you can just shove a hectare
of daffodils into the image, and drink enough
for your liver to feel the rib-cage and make you
gambling nonetheless: well, either that
or the brain is gone.
   and there were times when we enjoyed pain,
   and there were times when we celebrated it...
   a rare fetish, it was once the rave's dynamo startup!
marvellous, the Prince of Wales just walked
past, and people started shouting: shoot the
quasi Henry! shoot the quasi Henry the eighth dead!
n'ah, that never took off...
                                             appear and be believed,
           disappear and be relieved.

a first
family has
never ending
wilt this
statistician's score
and old
yeller on
top of
the scene
there with
his bullhorn
only there
to shout
as his
tweets mount
across the
inteenet dial

i'll give you a defiled rabbit's head and a mummified *******, and ten quid if you can find humour in horror movies. ah never mind... poetry versus fiction? well philosophy was attacked by music... poetry said to the bulging paragraphs: i’ll be the one to deconstruct and fake the masculine ****** known as cliché.*

it’s almost like people want to teach me a lesson,
a lesson in familiar reality,
enjoying the television and the family,
it’s like they’re trying to teach me something...
i don’t know what, exactly...
but they’re trying... using this game that’s expressed
in really **** graphics...
i think there’re trying to teach me something...
i think it’s something to do with taxes,
and delivering divorce rates from the statistician’s rubric...
but i’m hopeful, i think it’s something else...
when people tend to teach one individual
they get a gnome... and a lost eden;
in the end they only want one lesson to be learned:
‘join us! join us! you’re one of us!’
‘me tarzan... you oh no!’
what’s the equivalent of ruining mathematics with money
given words? ah ****... i’m blind! i’m blind!
i cannot touch what i cannot throw!
so the sequence ran: 1 £ 2 £ 3 £
and seqeunce ran: a hmm b hmm c humming d hunchback e helter skelter...
f... sardine fudged packing of doughnuts... well you get
infinity / jesus at the end of it...
down girl down... balloons don’t get blown up with prickly helium dialogues
all on ‘em own.

He is to the Father
As sunlight is to the sun
The Light
Which enlightens everyone
He is the risen Son
With unlimited candle power
So be ready, He comes
At we know not what hour
Of books He wrote none
He wrote in the dirt, but we know not what of
But He hasn’t left us invictus
He has illumined the convicted
God will save with few or many
Through the narrow gate
Some will be granted entry
To the estate
Now few or many are not enumerated
He’s not a mathematician (not here)
Love and grace are not gradated
He’s not a statistician (not here)
From the first Adam to the penultimate Adam
We’re all stained with sin
But because of The Last Adam
We get to win

Copyright 2022

oh: before the ******* get a chance to fire me,
resign me, whatever you want to call it,
i will go "out of my way" and do the ***** task myself:

you can't exactly couple being promoted in
one venue and upkeep what used to be a juggling
act with an security agency to cover your
back by being picky-choosy (i swear an E is missing
in that word) sey not say not siy...
so a Dear Fulham Team letter is necessary to:
excuse myself from further engaging in shifts...

ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
i still can't stomach the truthful irony of those words...
if only the **** employed the Hebs
in concentration camps to make ammunition
instead of telling them to lift bags
of sand from X and moving them to Y
and then from Y back to X for this macabre
circus-prison of sadism without *** being deployed...
*** as in: the act of ***...

weird sushi... weird sushi "thinking"...
but a welcome return to ice age barbarism...
how this return to "default" taught some of us:
conscious of the unconscious...
only recently, fervently, on Kauai...
i learned, intimately,
that the reason i don't conjure pictures / movies
in my dreams is, because:
i startle the sleeper next to me
applying myself to propping up like
an exorcism manifest woodoo (V for ****
you French ***** by the Velsh
                  longbowmen: adieu! my slingshot works
just fine... merdechiens: mèreconnards!

hey hey! orthographic police...
mère but not mèrde...
         hey! Napoleon! fix this...
    no? o.k. i'll fix it...
            it's not (after all) merdé... i known that in French
you utilise diacritical accents to cut off
using distinct, direct, phoneticism of: the use of letters...
because the ****** tongue is the only
Arya equivalent of any spoken European: tongue...
by pride or detail alone...

by the command of the druid skies of England
with white and clot
and with rain also akin to milk
this milk of misery and some geographic whereabouts
like Olson's Gloucester (Glow-Mr)
of New England or Maine...
poets of worth become periodical:
autobiographical in detail: because i should
notice their influence on me...

           just like i can make a summary of my engagement
with Edie Edith and compare that
to the laments of Kierkegaard in Either / Or
about the necessity of a married life...
because touch is a language in and of itself
and only yesterday we spoke for nearly 2h about...
intellectual stuff...
           "stuff"...
                  bouts of depression in Oregon...
something new to me...
i admired Picasso's pink and blue but never thought
she had experienced such pitchy domineering men...

pitchy? no... ah... an F in      pithy...
that's an F in piTHy...       (by aid no e, yet y: yeti!)
               fret over feta in thought and beta:
but no...
post-modernism is still alive and very much decent
of me to keep it so...
i.e. alive...

           to rise to the grandiosity of names listed in the song
by the Dead Can Dance (fortunate the man with none):
Solomon, sagacious, to him complexities seemed plain,
he cursed the hour of his birth, vanus, vanus, alles hohl...
Caesar, courageous,
Socrates, honest, the man who never lied...
            they weren't so grateful... instead the rulers
fixed him a trial...

English should be written with more apostrophes
can can be known...
for example, Tottenham...
which does not utilise all the letters in the script
written... but is like haven't for have not O
omitting a letter or a syllable altogether...
Tot"ñ"'am...
                Tot'ym'um'am
Tot'nudge­-nudge'am...

                            Fulham is easier:
  Ful'am...       the genius approach of the English tongue
is the apostrophe: which is a letter eater...
because in writing it is written as: FULL-HAM
but is uttered-ushered as Ful'am...
                oh how ***** Wonka of me to have this second
tongue as a plaything as a "gimp" as this
pedophilic fetish fantasy...
    my Pontius Pilate is currently obsessed with
Islamic cleanliness before a prayer:

i too: am washing my hands clean...
before i make no prayer...
just give a deity a thought... thought...

i can obsess about the English: ing-leash for almost forever...
given two eyes two arms two ears...
moving forward everyone in the future should know
a minimum of two tongues...
that's the precursor for the advent of national /
geographic capitulation... to the soft machine
of capitalism... the hard machines are there
regardless of whether it's the soft machine
of capitalism or communism...
computer computer on my desk...
who's the smartest idiot of the rest?
but in the future two tongues for every man...
at least to levitate from any potential symptoms
of schizophrenia...
   how do you think i "cured" myself from auditory
hallucinations?
if i heard splinter-ego vanities in English...
i started to confuse / conflate the symptoms by
reaching out to my mutterzunge....

by now America should be a bilingual nation,
speaking both fluent English and Spanish...
just like England should be a bilingual nation
speaking English and German...
i already know that Poland is sort of a Switzerland
of the Slavic world...
and i will not speak ***** Cyrillic Russian...
because to me: when i hear it...
Russian is a half-formed Polish...
it ******* sounds barbaric... even the phonetic encoding
is half-baked... M and A stand out like sore thumbs
aesthetically ugliest of all...

oh my toy my little Shakespeare psychoanalysis:
i did tell her... not all psychopaths turn out
to be geniuses at killing, serially...
i too lament the primo disguise of psychopaths:
faking competence...
they fake being competent in work...
ask one for profiteroles you might end up
with an East End steak and ale pie...
but that's me being hyperbolic...

               such is the joy of utilising a tongue without
having any geographical or historical lineage
attached to it... even my accent can't be equipped
with a regional bias: so i speak a generic,
"educated" (more self than school),
cosmopolitan English of... Lóndûn...
not on a Loan, Don...
              Qix...                Kich... Kichote
kichać? to sneeze... Pan Kicham...
  
                                           Sir Sneeze-a-lot...

because there's a fury in my genius that
decided to **** of both the guardian angel and demon
and spare god a bias with regards to what's
good or what's bad
given that this third party of creatures
are akin to angels and demons, yet stricter in
revealing their presence having sought out
a potential in man...

and with the ego going into the compartment of: exists
does not exist...
and with thought going into the compartment of:
essential or not essential...
because every ego is essential:
it's only a question whether it exists or doesn't...
but forever does: given that as fluidity
it can morph from reality to myth...
from journalism to history to poetry to allegory / myth...
to dream... to the archetypes...
of course the ego can replenish itself with
"reincarnations"... but an Achilles in a carwash?!
no...
that's what the Hindus got so wong... Rrrr... i call it a trill R
journalists in England call it a... a... *******:
rhasp? no...                        whatever the Bristol crew yar ar
m'ah pirate...

i do believe in reincarnation...
isolated case of 'cogito'...
         oh sure as **** 'cogito': prompt - limbless verb
to do: thought... think...
      cogitatio...
                         ratio of cogs... that's essentially
"reincarnated"... which is god...
        the universal quest of Q / ?

      who is a distinct figure to I or the existentialist
isolation of I via "I"...
because Q is like a shadow of I
                       who is the ego in the collective unconscious
of Jungian ******-analytical philosophy /
    psychological sophistry...
the Q is the I in the collective unconscious...

I have a Q... i am (not i'm ayemmm) I A'H MMM
a Q in the collective unconscious,
just like everyone else...
i can do I in third person but
obviously doing Q in third person is more natural
and less intrusive should the trans-gang
of confused genitals
come to the fore of the meta-gang of...
                             is bad *** such a massive issue
that it has to turn political...
i always tried to have *** good enough not to later
script it as a fantasy of having *** with vampires...

thinking is recycled... reincarnated...
we all arrive at its plateau...
and let's face it... we daydream and therefore thinking
can be recycled...
as the primo tool of exacting a definition of
being aware, conscious...
it's the most ridiculous "tool"...
thinking is like a sponge without soap...
it just moves dirt from one place on the body to another...
the sword of Damocles if you were:
but a parody of that sword...

to deviate from giving quench (of thirst)
driven by existential "demands": that current man,
the modern, hyperbolic contemporary,
the journalist with an opinion column in
the editorial section of a newspaper is,
"somehow"(?) the arbiter of truthfulness
and all that is sacred to the otherwise wordly-politico
jargon ball-crushing gimmick
and the licking scrutiny of H-Bomb Contraceptive-Pill
synonimity...
hmm...

       the Hindus "maybe" forgot the cyclic nature
of thought and the linear nature of the ego...
no one is going to be "reborn" or "replaced"...
the constituent ontology of this little thing
called life: res es vivo...
not theologia in vitro... but theologia in vivo...
well... with the "polytheism" of the many schisms
of Christianity: each a "god" unto his own...
because how else to explain

NARRATIO FALSUS
of christianity: what chimera was born on the torture
chamber of Golgotha that can't:
be: no: longer: romanticised!
what was once a primer for original sin
that became the primer for original innocence...
this macabre inversion of toothpicks
and how bones can and will itch
should one have the wrong sort of protein
lodged in-between...
"christ" ushered in the concept of original innocence...

where?! where is his guilt made justifiable
by all the hoard of jurisprudence standards
kept...
to... yield 2000 years of history based off of
a fictive friction is... frankly? besides me...
and i'm not referring to this Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
anti-Rome conspiracy as a joke
in the slightest...

so few might consider themselves Gnostics...
but i'm done with these Christmassy blues
like winter is somehow a depressing...
it has occured countless times...
it reminds me of when
the snow fell and the nights were blue
and the snow like ivory
fell and sank into a melt(ing)...

       by then i will want Reyla to know from
Edie that i baked her a birthday cake
and that she shouldn't have worried about
her peers not attending her birthday party:
because they did and the pool party was in full swing
and the strawberries were juicy and
i was not a ******* after all (because pedohplia
is a male-exclusive gimmick
for branching out to seek less
translatable munchkin-fetishes?)

what with Reyla's father being, ****-tod-dead...
you'd think i might want to champion
a borrowed ambition from ancient Rome
regarding the surrogacy of offspring...
my genes are unimportant...
but if i can allow a truce with
the ROTA EX COGITATIO...
the wheel of thought... not... no... not the wheel
of fortune... thinking is cyclic...
that's why we encounter the same questions
universally...

yes, some of us are overpowered by the geniuses
to compromise with Promethean advances
for the better of all of us...
but the rest is daydreams
lazy-thinking and a recurrency of dreams...
thinking is a soft-machine...

the circle out of thinking... rota ex cogitatio...
i for i alike...
             to my left and right a deposit of her:
for her liking... by call of swan:
a song of death...
              by wake i imply death and eyes that close:
this dirge... a barge and a chuckle from
Charon... that broken oar...
a bit like a fiddle-stick in a teacup that's
also a river should sugar be dissolved in it...

because it is love that makes me feel magnificent,
invonlunerable: invulnerable...
because it is love that gives me organs for a body
otherwise without (them)...
because it is love and moreover a lover's longing
that gives me double the love and
what oh love will i ever do with this
irrational-ability but dig my trenches and hark
and puff and shatter mirrors and clause
illusions into the mix and keep this:
dearest affection dearest hope dearest dark of
shadow mingle truth
            cauldron of ingredients with pulled out
teeth to mix with frog burps...

ah... now for that letter... i'd rather resign than be fired...
it's painfully obvious:
regardless of what my earnings might be...
if i can be appreciated as competent in one place
but not another:
i'm no sufler statistician for a theatre with:
no production...

the letter:

Dear Fulham Team,

It comes with a deep seeded regret that I have to compromise with these words to compose a Resignation Letter: as to my future as a Fulham F.C. employee.

Since the end of Lockdown circa 2021 Fulham F.C. has provided me with ample opportunities to hone in on my hidden strengths in interacting with the public via working for Executive Events Security - as you might be aware, for whatever reason, the agency decided to terminate the contract - yet with the implosive power of nostalgia I felt inclined to reapply for a job with the club directly.

To somehow reiterate my original stance, it brings me great regret having to write this Letter of Resignation - I have recently been given the opportunity to fill a Supervisory position at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. I have checked future dates for the season and noticed a "coincidental" clash of shifts for F.F.C., Tottenham Hotspur F.C. (and West Ham United - I am still employed at the agency that provides services for this venue).

The only available shifts I could make myself opportune would be with a West Ham F.C. clash, yet given my recent promotion at Tottenham Hotspur F.C. and the 80% demand of attendance given my position - I would not be able to juggle allegiance to two clubs as I might have done through an agency without a self-inflicted parody of interests.

To make my argument more solid, Tottenham Hotspur F.C. will allow me to exert more responsibility and also offer me more shift-times than I'm currently able to receive at F.F.C., given the venue is partaken to events outside the realm of a football season.

I simply couldn't allow myself to leave this matter unresolved, hoping that somehow I could do a patchwork of the choicest of availabilities, relegating F.F.C. as second choice whenever clashing with Tottenham.

Yet, I must stress the importance that F.F.C. played toward building my awareness to the importance of this profession, through my 2 year experience of starting this profession, I can, without any hesitation (and therefore doubt) confirm that, being a fan of the sport that's football, therefore being ultimately neutral when it comes to the sordid affair of team-tribalism, on numerous occasions, at other venues and indeed at Craven Cottage, I have earnestly expressed the following sentiment:

I'm not a fan of any football team as such, technically I should be a West Ham or a Dagenham & Redbridge fan - from a geographical standpoint of adhering to the geo-politics of 'nearest therefore dearest'... but I will always remain a fan of Fulham fans... because they are the fans that imbue a need for reciprocating a base human decency, unmet on any other football venue.

I hope I have made my notice as amicable as possible - in my mind it would be unfair to remain on the payroll wishfully thinking that my absenteeism was NOT because of a conflict of interests due to work elsewhere, therefore I'd rather hand in my resignation due to this, than have someone from the team "call me out" on the matter.

As ever and with a deep-seeded regret, I hope I have become across as transparent and in that: doubly regretful, for having bothered you with giving me employability, yet having to resign.

Kind Regards

Mateusz Elert

I let pride
Cloud my judgment
Of you
Safest space
I could place
My delusions
Delay
Decay’s pace,
Decades pass
We react
Like it’s all white and black
And the toll it exacts
Statistician’s
Poll tax
Is the mission
The merchant of death’s
Righteous path
So make safe in the shadows
And count out the facts
Or the gallows
Will bring back
The odds
Ever favor
The gods
As they savor
The fruits of our labor