I.

Thou aged unreluctant earth who dost
with quivering continual thighs invite
the thrilling rain the slender paramour
to toy with thy extraordinary lust,
(the sinuous rain which rising from thy bed
steals to his wife the sky and hour by hour
wholly renews her pale flesh with delight)
—immortally whence are the high gods fled?

Speak elm eloquent pandar with thy nod
significant to the ecstatic earth
in token of his coming whom her soul
burns to embrace—and didst thou know the god
from but the imprint of whose cloven feet
the shrieking dryad sought her leafy goal,
at the mere echo of whose shining mirth
the furious hearts of mountains ceased to beat?

Wind beautifully who wanderest
over smooth pages of forgotten joy
proving the peaceful theorems of the flowers
—didst e’er depart upon more exquisite quest?
and did thy fortunate fingers sometime dwell
(within a greener shadow of secret bowers)
among the curves of that delicious boy
whose serious grace one goddess loved too well?

Chryselephantine Zeus Olympian
sceptred colossus of the Pheidian soul
whose eagle frights creation,in whose palm
Nike presents the crown sweetest to man,
whose lilied robe the sun’s white hands emboss,
betwixt whose absolute feet anoint with calm
of intent stars circling the acerb pole
poises,smiling,the diadumenos

in whose young chiseled eyes the people saw
their once again victorious Pantarkes
(whose grace the prince of artists made him bold
to imitate between the feet of awe),
thunderer whose omnipotent brow showers
its curls of unendured eternal gold
over the infinite breast in bright degrees,
whose pillow is the graces and the hours,

father of gods and men whose subtle throne
twain sphinxes bear each with a writhing youth
caught to her brazen *******,whose foot-stool tells
how fought the looser of the warlike zone
of her that brought forth tall Hippolytus,
lord on whose pedestal the deep expels
(over Selene’s car closing uncouth)
of Helios the sweet wheels tremulous—

are there no kings in Argos,that the song
is silent,of the steep unspeaking tower
within whose brightening strictness Danae
saw the night severed and the glowing throng
descend,felt on her flesh the amorous strain
of gradual hands and yielding to that fee
her eager body’s unimmortal flower
knew in the darkness a more burning rain?

                    2.

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring
assembles beauty from forgetfulness
with the wild trump of April:witchery
of sound and odour drives the wingless thing
man forth in the bright air,for now the red
leaps in the maple’s cheek,and suddenly
by shining hordes in sweet unserious dress
ascends the golden crocus from the dead.

On dappled dawn forth rides the pungent sun
with hooded day preening upon his hand
followed by gay untimid final flowers
(which dressed in various tremulous armor stun
the eyes of ragged earth who sees them pass)
while hunted from his kingdom winter cowers,
seeing green armies steadily expand
hearing the spear-song of the marching grass.

A silver sudden parody of snow
tickles the air to golden tears,and hark!
the flicker’s laughing yet,while on the hills
the pines deepen to whispers primeval and throw
backward their foreheads to the barbarous bright
sky,and suddenly from the valley thrills
the unimaginable upward lark
and drowns the earth and passes into light

(slowly in life’s serene perpetual round
a pale world gathers comfort to her soul,
hope richly scattered by the abundant sun
invades the new mosaic of the ground
—let but the incurious curtaining dusk be drawn
surpassing nets are sedulously spun
to snare the brutal dew,—the authentic scroll
of fairie hands and vanishing with the dawn).

Spring,that omits no mention of desire
in every curved and curling thing,yet holds
continuous *******—through skies and trees
the lilac’s smoke the poppy’s pompous fire
the *****’s purple patience and the grave
frailty of daises—by what rare unease
revealed of teasingly transparent folds—
with man’s poor soul superlatively brave.

Surely from robes of particoloured peace
with mouth flower-faint and undiscovered eyes
and dim slow perfect body amorous
(whiter than lilies which are born and cease
for being whiter than this world)exhales
the hovering high perfume curious
of that one month for whom the whole years dies,
risen at length from palpitating veils.

O still miraculous May!O shining girl
of time untarnished!O small intimate
gently primeval hands,frivolous feet
divine!O singular and breathless pearl!
O indefinable frail ultimate pose!
O visible beatitude sweet sweet
intolerable!silence immaculate
of god’s evasive audible great rose!

                    3.

Lover,lead forth thy love unto that bed
prepared by whitest hands of waiting years,
curtained with wordless worship absolute,
unto the certain altar at whose head
stands that clear candle whose expecting breath
exults upon the tongue of flame half-mute,
(haste ere some thrush with silver several tears
complete the perfumed paraphrase of death).

Now is the time when all occasional things
close into silence,only one tree,one
svelte translation of eternity
unto the pale meaning of heaven clings,
(whose million leaves in winsome indolence
simmer upon thinking twilight momently)
as down the oblivious west’s numerous dun
magnificence conquers magnificence.

In heaven’s intolerable athanor
inimitably tortured the base day
utters at length her soft intrinsic hour,
and from those tenuous fires which more and more
sink and are lost the divine alchemist,
the magus of creation,lifts a flower—
whence is the world’s insufferable clay
clothed with incognizable amethyst.

Lady at whose imperishable smile
the amazed doves flicker upon sunny wings
as if in terror of eternity,
(or seeming that they would mistrust a while
the moving of beauteous dead mouths throughout
that very proud transparent company
of quivering ghosts-of-love which scarcely sings
drifting in slow diaphanous faint rout),

queen in the inconceivable embrace
of whose tremendous hair that blossom stands
whereof is most desire,yet less than those
twain perfect roses whose ambrosial grace,
goddess,thy crippled thunder-forging groom
or the loud lord of skipping maenads knows,—
having Discordia’s apple in thy hands,
which the scared shepherd gave thee for his doom—

O thou within the chancel of whose charms
the tall boy god of everlasting war
received the shuddering sacrament of sleep,
betwixt whose cool incorrigible arms
impaled upon delicious mystery,
with gaunt limbs reeking of the whispered deep,
deliberate groping ocean fondled o’er
the warm long flower of unchastity,

imperial Cytherea,from frail foam
sprung with irrevocable nakedness
to strike the young world into smoking song—
as the first star perfects the sensual dome
of darkness,and the sweet strong final bird
transcends the sight,O thou to whom belong
th ehearts of lovers!—I beseech thee bless
thy suppliant singer and his wandering word.

When there are so many we shall have to mourn,
when grief has been made so public, and exposed
to the critique of a whole epoch
the frailty of our conscience and anguish,

of whom shall we speak? For every day they die
among us, those who were doing us some good,
who knew it was never enough but
hoped to improve a little by living.

Such was this doctor: still at eighty he wished
to think of our life from whose unruliness
so many plausible young futures
with threats or flattery ask obedience,

but his wish was denied him: he closed his eyes
upon that last picture, common to us all,
of problems like relatives gathered
puzzled and jealous about our dying.

For about him till the very end were still
those he had studied, the fauna of the night,
and shades that still waited to enter
the bright circle of his recognition

turned elsewhere with their disappointment as he
was taken away from his life interest
to go back to the earth in London,
an important Jew who died in exile.

Only Hate was happy, hoping to augment
his practice now, and his dingy clientele
who think they can be cured by killing
and covering the garden with ashes.

They are still alive, but in a world he changed
simply by looking back with no false regrets;
all he did was to remember
like the old and be honest like children.

He wasn't clever at all: he merely told
the unhappy Present to recite the Past
like a poetry lesson till sooner
or later it faltered at the line where

long ago the accusations had begun,
and suddenly knew by whom it had been judged,
how rich life had been and how silly,
and was life-forgiven and more humble,

able to approach the Future as a friend
without a wardrobe of excuses, without
a set mask of rectitude or an
embarrassing over-familiar gesture.

No wonder the ancient cultures of conceit
in his technique of unsettlement foresaw
the fall of princes, the collapse of
their lucrative patterns of frustration:

if he succeeded, why, the Generalised Life
would become impossible, the monolith
of State be broken and prevented
the co-operation of avengers.

Of course they called on God, but he went his way
down among the lost people like Dante, down
to the stinking fosse where the injured
lead the ugly life of the rejected,

and showed us what evil is, not, as we thought,
deeds that must be punished, but our lack of faith,
our dishonest mood of denial,
the concupiscence of the oppressor.

If some traces of the autocratic pose,
the paternal strictness he distrusted, still
clung to his utterance and features,
it was a protective coloration

for one who'd lived among enemies so long:
if often he was wrong and, at times, absurd,
to us he is no more a person
now but a whole climate of opinion

under whom we conduct our different lives:
Like weather he can only hinder or help,
the proud can still be proud but find it
a little harder, the tyrant tries to

make do with him but doesn't care for him much:
he quietly surrounds all our habits of growth
and extends, till the tired in even
the remotest miserable duchy

have felt the change in their bones and are cheered
till the child, unlucky in his little State,
some hearth where freedom is excluded,
a hive whose honey is fear and worry,

feels calmer now and somehow assured of escape,
while, as they lie in the grass of our neglect,
so many long-forgotten objects
revealed by his undiscouraged shining

are returned to us and made precious again;
games we had thought we must drop as we grew up,
little noises we dared not laugh at,
faces we made when no one was looking.

But he wishes us more than this. To be free
is often to be lonely. He would unite
the unequal moieties fractured
by our own well-meaning sense of justice,

would restore to the larger the wit and will
the smaller possesses but can only use
for arid disputes, would give back to
the son the mother's richness of feeling:

but he would have us remember most of all
to be enthusiastic over the night,
not only for the sense of wonder
it alone has to offer, but also

because it needs our love. With large sad eyes
its delectable creatures look up and beg
us dumbly to ask them to follow:
they are exiles who long for the future

that lives in our power, they too would rejoice
if allowed to serve enlightenment like him,
even to bear our cry of 'Judas',
as he did and all must bear who serve it.

One rational voice is dumb. Over his grave
the household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved:
sad is Eros, builder of cities,
and weeping anarchic Aphrodite.

Ah, why, why is t'is desire still here, Vladimir?
T'is generous, yes, and unmistakable desire
to love thee, and imagine thee here-
fidgeting softly and so tenderly
within th' nourishing charms of my arms.
And thy bronze hair!
Swiftly moving away, along with thy own fantasy
as I rub my palm across its comeliness
and bestow a kiss on its fairness.
Oh, what a morbid, morbid image!
An image I should dream of not!
I am allowed not to love thee, allowed not!
For I am his already, and might just be his forever-
and thus to befriend all his mistakes,
bear all his troublesome resolutions,
and cheer and sheepishly flourish
in th' seemingly very occurrences of his triumphs.
And his days, Vladimir-are supposedly my ways,
my ways towards yon now unbearable fascination,
whose murky door is a key to fate, ah-
a fate to my mind, and assumed, t'ough dreaded, salvation.
But look, look how my conscience is burnt!
O, burnt upon thinking of leading t'is life-
and th' remnants of my thy age, without thee!
Burnt so atrociously together as it shalt be-
with my loitering delight, which lies just, tragically,
in th' layers of thy salubrious lips, and
th' very sole guiltlessness of thy blue eyes.
O, how immortal is its blueness, Vladimir-
in whom shalt never t'ere be mortal misery!
A mortal, mortal misery-
like yon one of t'at roaring seagull,
suffocating and out choking upon its first fly
over th' highlands next to th' sea
and behindst its deafening nightmare across th' sky
innocent and trembling, in such coldness,
without having but anywhere to lie;
meanwhile trampled along by th' sinister heaven
until its tower of love, and wreaths of wisdom, die.
But look at t'ose angels above 'im!
With paeans so eloquent and fulled by eagerness,
shalt t'ey sing above its eccentric grave-
ah, but only a grave of stateliness, and not 'is body
until wherein a touch of t'eir finger
wakes 'im back up, and resuscitates 'is rays of laughter
so t'at it celebrates forever eternity-
and in return, its very own eternity, forever.

And here I am-like a pale tree, standing *****
'mongst most of th' nightly valley-
animated with green light, and shapes of madness
in th' entirety of whose torso;
so t'at I wilt, with such a wildness in my heart,
hover over thee against in today's dreams,
and thy magic which is buried humbly in thy Moscow.
O, my Russian prince, for th' battles of my heart thou hath won
and from whose sarcasm thou hath shone.
I am drawn, drawn, hungrily-and selfishly, to thee!
And I caught thee, again, yesterday, behind th' bushes,
far not from th' rich forests and distant gravel paths,
waving at me, with a gentle smile on thy lips
defined t'ere so clearly, so young and free!
O, but cannot I declare t'at I love thee,
how sadly and tortuously!
Ah, for I am entwined with him only,
how thou but came late to my life-
oh, if only t'ose dreadful seconds hath but never existed!
Remorse, remorse, and accusations are but th' mere ones
t'at I deserve; and shalt forever just I preserve
for from thy love I canst never run;
and t'is ode shalt be meaningless and just fun
as to nature I wilt do harm
should I ever be swirled lost in thy charms.

Ah, Vladimir! I reckon thy love is as poisonous
as Eden's evil fruit; and soon I consumed my sight-
by peering up into thy eyes;
I caught th' sense of boyish starlight,
which lulled me t'en to a new sleep, all day and night.
Thy very mirth is to me laughs;
but thy sadness is to me tears.
But all thy touches are to me love;
and of which no-one shalt ever hear.
For thinking of thee is a sin, my love-
and a wound to him, and his course a fear.
How forbidden, forbidden thou art, to me!
But sadly I canst only love thee!
Oh, Vladimir, I doth love thee, with all th' strictness
and assurances t'at I might have-as all th' powers I may still save.
My Vladimir! And in th' afterlife,
with blossoms of snow in our cold Moscow
Might just we be t'ere for our tomorrow;
and cherish t'is end of our strained sorrow.

And just hath I always done,
'Tis time needed I retreatst from my poetry;
and faced, ah, faced t'is troublesome relapse
of my reality. Oh, t'ese wan, surreal chores!
And t'at knock on my door-which is insidiously
his, and his only.
But I shalt think of thee again, t'is evening-
and may just be more ever after,
with such an ardent thoughtfulness in my mind
and violent; as how is t'is craving, for making thee mine.

I am not praising you,
With any unwanted words.
Whatever I come across,
I just write in few words.
My pen cannot remain idle,
It just feel like writing down few verses, which I cannot tell on ones face directly.

He is a man with a passion for his work, so dedicated to his work.
With flattery words one cannot win him ever.
Send him birthday wishes, he will never love.
But with what dedication you do the work, only pleases him ever.
There cannot be any explanations for the excuses if any.
Just in plain words speak the truth.
His eyes are too sharp to judge you perfectly.
His memory is too sharp and
Blessed with great sense of humor.

Shaking hands meeting eyes to eyes,
His eyes speak of boldness.
Blended with beautiful qualities of,
Self Disciplined and inner strength.
He can sail through any storms,
which he had proved many times.
His strictness may not be liked,
as a man of disciplines.

He is a man full of life and charms.
A man, who has the courage to do the right thing.
But I will never tell,
Who you are.
I love to praise the qualities,
Whatever my eyes see,
What ever I hear,
For I know the person.
It's the plain truth I am writing,
Regarding him in my verse.
He may not read my verses,
so boldly I can write regarding him.
If someone asks who is he,
For, I will never tell.
For it can be you
or anyone who comes with
these qualities ever.

I have never seen a man, just took few hours of leave for his surgery.
Surprise it was that he directly he went to office the moment he was discharged.
So dedicated to work.
All I can tell is,
He is a rare person with so many qualities I have ever met.
Yes, I do respect him and his qualities, which he owns.
He is a unique man of rare with lots of achievements.
God Bless Him with best of health and happiness always!

Thank You!

strictness ruled down,
ruled out, cursive,
signposted in Times New Roman,
the ninth letter of an alphabet
I struggle to breathe within,
the marker for my psyche,
the superlative, objective,
somewhat subjective and lost in ego,
twisted between tibia, fibula,
the pronoun scarred across
the canvas of my skin,
the myriad,
in want of you,
always needing less,
or more, or less,
an apology,
a last kiss
a hesitation;
I.

Rules are rules
or are they?
If 12:01 is late for curfew
is there a greater consequence for 12:06?
If I call for 12:10 does that buy me 12:15?
Negotiating strictness
Bargaining freedom
Dealing Discipline
Oh to be 14 again.

Today I place palms

in partnership

let the raised mazes

at my fingertips

interlock the hemispheres

of soul, of my body,

and of my metaphor

let the leash of time

slip to the floor

freeing my grasp

so my hands may be

liberated to face the sky

kiss goodbye

the culling clockwork

swim gradually outward

to thin the clutter

with silence

let sensations dance

percolate if they must

taste of them

with the tip of my tongue

allow the blossoms of thought

to heave

their tension my way

and just as quickly

watch them fall away

to evaporate from solid

to liquid

to vapor in my own lap

settled just beneath

the fuzz on my nose

feathers are

what become of me

my lungs waft

like cotton sings

whispering on breeze

my strictness

is weightless armature

is stillness

and momentum one

my posture is centered

above in-breath

my attitude finds

altitude of out-breath

I watch my own evacuation

lightness

spreading to stratos

gravity hugging

darkness unconditional

eyes closed

I become the distance

reached for and embraced

in the grasp

of my own depth

I witness open flame

I peel the onion

We sat on the grass in front of Banks House near the bomb shelters now unused but still there like monuments of a tragic past and the coal wharf across the way where coal lorries and horse drawn wagons waited to be loaded with coal and coke and the railway bridge over Rockingham Street where steam trains passed over noisily and behind us the windows of the flats of Banks House where nosey neighbours spied on the passing world and Fay said her father and mother had rowed that morning rowed loud enough to have the woman below in the flats to knock on her ceiling as if to say they were making too much noise with their voices and her father had stamped down on the floor as if to say mind your business and I asked her what they were arguing about and she said it was about her mothers attitude about church going and her faith being not what it was and her father had said she would end up in Hell and was it fair on her daughter to have a mother who was destined for such a place and I said it was her mothers choice about her faith if she had one still or even if she didnt any more Fay wasnt sure about it after all she said faith was a gift from God and a gift that needed nurturing and looking after not to be neglected or lost or so her father had said and even the nuns at school had said similar things at R.E. a week or so before and I said if faith was a gift from God how comes that some people never seem to have got it never got the gift of faith at all or if they had got the gift it had slipped through their fingers? she wasnt sure I could see it in her eyes and I knew she had a real fear of her father of his violence and his strictness regarding her faith and her knowledge of her faith and he didnt like her going out with me because he said I wasnt Catholic and had a lack of attitude towards faith of any kind and he-her father- didnt like me and had warned her not to go out with me and said dont you go out with that Benedict boy but she had secretly and stood the chance of punishment if she was found out being out with me and  she said she was between two people she loved her mother and her father and hoped to God they would not split up as her mother said at times when they rowed that she would and take me with her if she left that serious? I said and she said it seemed like it to her and after rows like the one today it seemed more likely than before and she said her father said that she could not leave him as they were married in the eyes of God and to leave would be to break her vows before God and be in a state of sin and a sin that could mean she was destined to go to Hell I opened the Tizer bottle I had brought with me from the off license and offered her a swig and she took the bottle in her hand and took a short swig and offered it back to me and I wiped the bottle top with my hand and took a big swig and it made my eyes water as the bubbles exploded up my nose I didnt like the thought of Fay being taken off by her mother and that I might not see her any more I couldnt bear to think of you not being around here any more I said she eyed the windows of the flats behind us  and leaned close to me and kissed my cheek I hope I don't leave here she said my friends are here and my dad and you especially she said I studied her blonde hair the smooth hair brought into a ponytail and the yellow dress she wore and white socks and the black shoes- slightly scuffed- maybe we should run away she said just us but she had said it in a romantic kind of way of thinking us being just twelve years old but it seemed quite fun in a romantic kind of way and I said sure where will we go? France she said Id like to go there and see men in berets and hear that French music and drink coffee at table on streets corners I smiled sounds good I said I offered her the Tizer bottle again and she wiped the top of the bottle with her palm and drank a big mouthful then gave it back to me where would you like to go? she asked me I said America to see Dodge City and see  where cowboys used to gunfight and maybe we could live in a log cabin and have a dog and keep cattle  and she smiled and kissed me and said you and your cowboys and such I drank from the Tizer bottle and put it on the grass beside me what about Rome? she said and see the Pope and the Vatican and the paintings and see other nuns and priests I saw her look at me and I smiled and said we could go to the seaside near by and go bathing and sit on the beach and have drink and sandwiches and just lie on the sand and look up at the sun and relax thatd be good she said looking at me but of course we will have to wait until we are older she said otherwise Daddy will come looking for us and then Id really be for it once he found us I sat looking at her trying to take in what I could of her in case her mother took her away from here and me and left a big hole in my twelve year old life and maybe I thought if we wait long enough we could marry and she could be my blonde haired blue eyed wife.

Let us depart,
Though the orchard is full of roses,
And to the bench we are bound!

Let us depart;
Time is a disciplined man,
Its strictness will surely strike us,
And we can't stay here anymore!

Let us depart
For separation is law of heaven,
And ere it is too late to bid farewell!

the nausea of wine is to say: one cannot drink it without eating, even after a meal, and a few slices of watermelon, the nausea from drinking it alone and not in the celebrated way with food... beer and whiskey are better compatriots to fuse a feeling upon feeling on an empty stomach, that spawn no nausea, but only reward at the limits an irresistible hunger that ends the ritual, unlike wine.*

sober composition is oh so unsatisfying,
so predictable, so afraid of the world so un-daring,
not patted by subtle sarcasm or some other Dionysian
muse: so rigid so accountable for strictness and base
facts...
      almost nothing heartfelt...
and so long winding it would seem,
without a clever feel for impromptu...
so time consuming and space
filling...
                           ...never again,
for this face it too recognisable,
to analogous to everything
else, so "with the times" or
by whatever definition
                        undemanding,
strained by the expectable,
never the unexpected even
in form of a nonsensical whim,
this sober use of language for
me the opposite of the poets
of the 20th century...
who invested in composition
in tiers higher even than drinking
beer...
          to me soberness is like
the higher tier of writing with
and within a certain intoxication
no intoxication at all...
a hefty sum of all elements,
all organs... where abstracting
the brain in the mind and allowing
a dis-joining of it:
to feed a placebo question
of fear relieved by actual fear
rather than its appreciation is no more,
or if nothing more, a bit like
awaiting caveman hunts reduced to shopping
in aisles of markets... deadened and therefore
predictable... afraid twice over with the loss
of familial tribalism of closet connectivity...
reducing us to a monetary interchange
or: broken roof, someone fixes it,
broken toilet, someone fixes it...
banking failure... suddenly we all congregate?!
i hate writing sober... it means i get to notice
i don't like my poetry, and poetry per se,
because i just don't want to voice it,
i just want to narrate, pure and simple...
a narration without characters akin to fiction,
or characters without third person narration
to ascribe a narcotic feeling of presence...
it's a drug that's hardly one worthy an ascription
of a psychoactive ingredient, it's a platonic cave drug,
a shadow you can touch and disappear...
i'm not like a writer of fiction,
i'm trying to reconcile poetry with philosophy,
i spend most of my times thinking, losing thought,
trailing with the unthinkable or simply thinking,
but i never see the book, that's why i'm sad
in terms of composition,
like the last wish of bukowski, to have written
a semi-pure fiction of the novel pulp,
to discard semi if not full autobiography...
true psychiatry is of the living
to read nuances into the once lived out leaving
notations... more to take care of the dead
than just through mantra or prayer...
if analysis leaves us without third party acquisitions
of thought away from the dualism of egos
as one sick and the other ascribing a status of healthy;
you see, it's a harsh case of not having
a narrators' complexity, not spending time
typing to excess, but the time spent
thinking about other people's units of thought:
also known as ideas... and with so many
decimals of measure a lifetime of individuals,
it is hard to narrate...
since the productive side aligns to dis-joined
expression of productivity,
and the economic side aligns to a linear fluid
expression of non-productivity....
it's hard to create a narrator let alone a narrative
of one's self without a loss of one's self to
the existential notation of a "self",
the inverse reminder of what writing fiction was
about: a concrete narrator...
there's no concrete narrator here,
no craft of character formulation...
instead we have an unstable narrator
that cannot truly narrate,
and the only character formulation
from the unease of the once eased narration
of existential fiction is a self lost among selves /
existential notation of a self as a "self" /
with loss of an anti-chiral hegelian approach
i.e. i am i... forgot the unearthing of a pluralism
of narrator that could not fathom a required
imagination for a raskolnikov,
                               marmeladov,
                               petrovich,
                               razumihkin... etc.

Dear father,
I am your lil version.
People usually say 1st daughter are father's carbon copy, i belive what they mention.
All your love  for me or your decisions
I respect them and never question.
You made so many sacrifices and
Always being an helping hand.
Your strictness gave me growth
And yo u be there for me like under oath.
I want to return but i cant
Now i want to fulfil all your want.
You made me capable, you made me so far
Now its my turn to make you at par.

I trusted you. I really did.
Back then, I was just a kid.

Two years of agony have burned in my soul.
I’m sorry, now why won’t you let me achieve my goal?

You took the freedom from my innocent, wounded hands
Watched my happiness disappear like the infinite grains of sands

Like I’m in a prison, security everywhere
Clutching my fragile heart, with every wound and fear

And you can blame it all on me
But now I won’t even tell you who I want to be

Now I’ve matured, and finally moved on
Why won’t that strictness of you carry on?

Why can’t you be the person I thought you were?
Why can’t you treat me just like her?

Why must I be the person you lash out on?
Why won’t you miss me when I’m gone?

It’s because you took everything, even my personality
Now, I’m a nobody. Just me and your brutality.

i wonder if you know what it's like to be them
to have to carry your hands on the sides of your body
because keeping them in the pocket of your hoodie would lead to speculation
that you're carrying a weapon you're in no possession of
eyes on you wherever you go
warnings made over the radio
demands from behind you
"hands over your head where i can see them"
the sound of incoming sirens cue a scene they're far too familiar with
as you sit in the audience, row M, popcorn in your hand, watching the star in suspense
“but officer I’m not carrying a weapon, look—“
…
Boom.
suspicion is justifiable for a bullet hole in their chest
does that same rule apply to you?
…
i wonder if you know what it's like to be in the presence of another
and sense the shift in their body as they do their best to distance themselves from you
because apparently there's an imprint across your forehead that screams:
DANGER
...
you probably don't
because it is you who shifts uncomfortably
clutching a little tighter to your purse and wallet
...
who was the first person who told you to stay away?
…
i wonder if you know what it feels like to have expectations already made for you
they are nothing in comparison to the ones you are assigned at birth
they are nothing like the expectations you are molded into as a child
because unlike them,
you are told you can accomplish anything
you are told you can fight for what you believe in
with no repercussions
you are told you can become whoever you want to be
and you never doubt it
unlike you,
they are the ones placed under the knees of blue in suffocation
another byproduct of history
the expectations placed on them are ones that have been running through the vines of their family tree ever since its seed was planted on this foreign soil
...
they very same ones that deem them
inferior
lazy
dangerous
...
all attributes used to create a segregation amongst us people
a definitive fine line
that if one oversteps
proclaiming unity and equity among us all
prepare for the raise of a hand
a baton enwrapped by fingers who are supposed to instill peace
they've reigned terror on the same people they're assigned to protect
a contradiction, wouldn't you agree?
"Land of the Free"
then why are so many of our people expected to succumb to oppression and dehumanization
why'll the rest of us reside comfortably in our luxury and privilege?
without worry of an invasion
8 shots released in deep sleep
"wrong house" they said...
but this is america
right?
...
i wonder if you've lived life being told you'll fall under the same pattern as your ancestors
that there is no way of breaking the chain
...
i wonder if you know what it feels like to be treated as a token everyone loves displaying for attention
but when the moment comes to fight their truth
...
that attention ceases to exist
...
i wonder if you realize your duty in this fight for justice
but if you don't
i congratulate you
...
you've lived a life safe and sound
away from interrogation
fear
strictness
alertness
you've lived a life where the color of your skin does not predict your destiny
it's formed a shield
a layer that obliterates
accusation
gunshots
abuse
neglect
and prejudice in its most destructive form
...
to be born in this nation as white is the equivalent of getting a head start in the 400m relay we call life
running gracefully with the most opulent shoes for support
jumping over hurdles with an effortless ease
coached by the best of the best
your privilege awards you the golden ticket
tell me
why are you so reluctant in using it for justice?
-c. alejandra

How many deaths are we allotted, then?
It depends on the strictness of your definition, one supposes,
For it comes in several degrees of fatality and finality,
And most often in fits and starts,
A process by which we offer up limbs,
Bits of heart and soul,
So that we can forestall some disaster
Even more wretched, more unwelcome,
And even if we walk more slowly, more cautiously
As the repeated runnings of the gauntlet exact their toll,
It may not be the implacable onslaught of age
Which roils our sleep and the periphery of our waking hours
As much as the knowledge
That, unlike our multi-epoched feline brethren,
We may not land on our feet
As the unseen hands blithely toss us
Down one more set of stairs
Which lead to the abyss.

christian has her hair long
her face plain without
lip of makeup, and her
brief mouth is without rose;

  (i know)

i'm unsure why
the lips nothing
and hair plainly
with longness

seems feverishly something to have.

(wants i wonder which
within your hips are softly sleeping;
it needs to fill the itch–
their strictness always keeping)      .

i've already transgressed the applicable diacritical
markings, i've already hidden the
slavic "grapheme": sz in š -
    (in english that's a sz with a H - a sheep).
         language has to first become
mandible - "erroneous" -
                    it has to be bribed, it has to be
changed, it has to evolve into something else -
  and that's how it happens -
           matthew, matthias, mateusz, mateuš -
i can hardly claim self-love:
                                           but i adore my name;
i'm actually fascinated with names -
       whoever calls their daughter peaches is
to me: unimaginative.
                         i abide by no school-rubric
strictness of what ought to be diacritically
         acceptable -
             i transcend this base of implication -
and some words from the native tongue -
  kawa (kava) - coffee -
     cukier - sugar -
         mleko - milk
       woda (voda) - water
            wódka (vódka) - ***** -
           when - łen -
            łamanie - wama'nie - the breaking -
   orzech laskowy - hazelnut -
   again the graphemes rz (ż) and ch (H) -
              and that's truly an orthographic
statement.
                    
   scales of a dragon, tooth of a wolf:
witches' mummy; maw, and gulf,
        of the ravined salt-sea shark;
root of hemlock, digged in the dark;
liver of a blaspheming jew;
gall of goat, and slips of yew,
      slivered in the moon's eclipse;
nose of a turk, and tartar's lips;
   finger of a birth-strangled babe,
   ditch delivered by a drab,
                   make the gruel thick and slab:
add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
for the ingredients of our cauldron.

  as ever, macbeth and the three years
in edinburgh bribe my thoughts concerning
the first time atop arthur's seat -
   a city that's also the perfect compass -
overlooking the firth of forth -
     i knew exactly when looking
to the east, when exactly looking to
the north, and west, and south.

      besides the already said -
manhattan boils, and i'm simply bored -
  it's has becoming a boredom expecting
what's to be expected -
                 that's the problem with terror -
it no longer dreams big, the unexpected
has already become the expected -
    terrorism has become normalised -
   when it was al qa qa ida -
  has become no no norman -
     who the hell names their son: norman?!

ah, only 8 dead, that's nothing,
                 i'm just tired of the tirade -
should it, or shouldn't it come along...
              beside "being" defeatist -
             it's just the plain sight boredom of
the said narrative -
                   who will tire first is the only
question i have to ask,
  but never will ask...
       it's simply tiresome to defend the "good"
muslims...
            **** it, throw the whole lot of them
into the same bucket and start shooting
the same fish in a single barrel...
                          some people believe
that authentic plagiarism is an artform per se,
this is true:
  plagiarism isn't easy,
   i wrote one sociology essay by plagiarising
at university, i did it,
   because i wanted to check whether the computer
program in effect could actually detect
a plagiarism... funny... it didn't...
i got a first by carefully utilising a thesaurus...
it could have been a reverse result
                 of kasparov vs. deep blue...
but this isn't a case of plagiarising
   the berlin attack -
              the kaiser wilhelm memorial
    church at breitscheidplatz -
       you become tired of the excuses -
      after a while you are given the opportunity
to finally cut the throbbing membrane mark -
there is and there will be the distinction
we're entrenched in the: us and the them...
      added the fact that i don't agree
on the crux banality of history -
   historiology is nonsense to me -
     the anglophone is over-stretched with what
it "accounts" for as "genuine" history -
      big bag, dinosaurs, cavemen, monkeys...
stretch armstrong or what?!
                           i prefer the much simpler
view of history, namely, that i have already planned
a shortening -
  whereby historiology is replaced by
   etymology...
                         hence the interlude of native
words:
            chrapać - snore -
                   sen - dream -
          śnić - to dream -
                                  kaszel - cough -
and the debate between
        kasłać and kaszłać -
                        or the readied laziness
with a grapheme - agrippa -
              chequers and cappuccino -
grapheme assured - not roman siamese -
                    but nonetheless graphemes...
once more: the fluidity of language -
   one again: not all rules are made to be left
orthographically unbroken,
      ask a silesian about his mongrel
                     germano-pollack tongue -
                                           or the kashubian;
perhaps the rules of the orthodox tongue
rigid and schooled remain in a vault
in warsaw, but outside of warsaw:
                   the tongue is no iron -
            the tongue is clay,
                 and moulded in the image of
    the one wielding it, to his desire:
            lingua est non ferrum -
        lingua est lutum -
                        ludere deus /
                     das zunge ist nicht eisen -
     das zunge ist lehm -
                                           spielen gott.

It is the process of revealing oneself through which one can understand their infirmities and their powerless nature. Successful people will always build their lives around others. Because they are people who want to hear what they want to hear. But, being rich doesn't mean you automatically subjugate yourselves to the weaker philosophy and opinion of the crowd.

But, when we realize that we are different from the rest, therein lies our uniformity. In that clarity, you can see that your life is a search for individual truth. What is being unique?

Instead of a truth that is of cosmic proportions, we find ourselves in an abyss.

A child akin to his parents will think of how he can model himself. Notwithstanding, the parentage of a child becomes a vital factor in the moral upbringing of children. But, a child should be allowed to lead a life among the forests, oceans, and leaves rustling languidly. Thus, pursuing an education in the caprice of the divine and the grace of Earth.

That grace is not available in strictness of the cane, but it flows in the wings of birds.

Instead of forcing conformity on an infant, the perfect mother should propose that a child chose a path. They will react to the stimuli present in schoolyards, playgrounds, social gatherings. Later, a child explores a form of conscious intelligence. Here are places where children feel pressured to excel and become self-aware. But, that self-awareness comes from how close a child is to his parents. A child will never model his behavior to his parents unless he loves one of them more than the other. In other words, he respects one parent the more. It is enough for his subconscious to devise a manner in which he finds a partner similar to the parent he loves. But, the sole burden of pleasing the parent he respects forces him to model himself to the parent he respects.

In some ways, the partner a man chooses is someone he can never be. Free in the ways of the world, one with nature. In short, a child at heart.

This individual is made up of his prejudices, influences, and his little world of interests. Yet, instead of following the footsteps of the kinder parent, he replicates the behavior of the domineering figure of the house. A child's mind is made up from the moment he is born.

i should really stop watching these
youtube videos,
hearing people talking is
becoming... drag...

        esp. when drinking...
just put the music back on:
buddy body...
                  said the parasitic ego...
i can only entertain
about two new opinions,
per day...
      with you congesting
me with all this blah blah...
            don't get me wrong:
i do enjoy it...
        he enjoys it! "we're" fine...

just gender neutrality...
of pronouns?
             - he said there's more!
- and there is...
        how, certain languages...
can't escape the genderism
of their nouns...
     fwench...
         for one...

what about when you
become: pronoun disorientated,
i.e.
    you begin addressing
yourself via the plural
fabric,
   and in a doom-esque
style first shooter...
  you have to look back through
your eyes...
and breathe out a...
    'huh?!'

who wouldn't be perplexed...
       more music, less talking
videos...
**** me, you know the radio
station that plays decent
pop music,
and doesn't succumb to
advert interludes from
             circa 11pm to circa
6am...
            FAMA radio...
   https://radiofama.com.pl/

               yeah i know it's not
Wagner...
   but i like the fact that
adverts die after a certain hour
of the day,
and people are trying to
fall to sleep...
       esp. if they're not being
knocked out
  by a bottle of whiskey...

funny story...
i was once in a Liverpool st.
a black cud (cuddly thing,
a bit on the, lardish side)
stood next to me
with a white girlfriend...
   - see, she giggled,
i think she was... "in, on the joke"...
so i asked him...
- what are you drinking?
- *** & coke...
- oh, that's a ****** name for a drink,
i don't want the run-down
of the recipe,
i want the meal...
so what are you drinking?
- a *** & coke...
i had to eye him up and down,
down and up...
   fair enough, buckeroo...
- blackbeard!
the girl laughed...
      me, the interracial couple,
and some mongrel
with a proud irish in him,
and some pakistani...
standing side by side...
for a while...
oh god,
the pain, the embarrassment,
of having to explain to a stranger
that you have just been
strapped to: being stood-up
for a date...
             hey...
every time i flick my hand...
my shadow "friend"
i can't shake off...
     i didn't ask for a scribe
to dictate to a god my every
c.c.t.v. movement...
        hell...
         just have to roll with it...
but there was a giggle,
and yeah, he did don a beard...
what else would you call
a *** & coke... if not blackbeard?
a black isn't exactly black
when he's not coal...
but chocolate!
         the **** was he drinking?
a jack sparrow?
   to be honest,
that does sound better...
many people these days...
are not exactly concerned
with furthering the memory
of eddie "the patch" thatch...
- o.k., just give me the pagan music
from scandinavia and
some byzantine monk chants...
   i'll figure out some Mahler
when i'm in need of thinking -

it almost felt like standing
in Trafalgar Sq.
among all the throng
of the pigeon collective,
just prior to them taking
off by a slithering snap & bite
of telepathic panic
being induced on them...
      
    yes, because:
what did it feel like
is, probably twice as important
to reason...
given the casual expression...
what did i think about?
**** me...
i didn't think to begin with...
here's my cognitive luggage...
thinking always comes
after...
and, unlike feeling...
is never measured
     interim...

       measured feeling...
which of course, being measured...
allows for a post-scriptum
of thought...
delay...
                   pieces of a puzzle
that do not fit
for a personal gain...
since the puzzle / labyrinth is
already prosecuting you with
an a.i. semblance
       alternative -
the womb of all things abstract...
that... automated birth
from the womb of per se...
wriggle there, little sprout
of ego, *****-esque...
  into either that bright light...
or the yawning darkness...

no... feeling is not so bad,
but a tongue attired
in a stiff tuxedo will do you
one better...
   sure...

hey! oi! penta mann!
well, i can give you a sketch
of contradictions...
i'm about to live in a country
that freely accepts
Daesh refugees...
oh, just some stupid teenager...
but you know...
        there's no tongue-in-cheek
with this...
   prejudice contra:
and this is not about being
right or wrong,
rather: i told you so mentality...

so... when will the inmates
of Broadmoor
have their spring holiday?

the western five pillars...
let's see if i get this right...
  what once was shahadah
is now...         jahudah...
   funny, if any, translation...
       it's not exactly disbelief...
more...
          atoms are our tools,
and...
something or other...

   salat (prayer) becomes
hadith (freedom of speech)...

no good translation
when you need one...
so the idea...
oh... not gluttony...

that would be too obvious...
fast...
        siam...
                           hamia...
but this is...
   in the western world?
an obsession...
they figured:
pretense for Lent...
one month of obligation
ought to do it...
but... each and every day?
for...
nibbling on an iconoclasm?

zakat...
            if not
gambling...
then certainly being
duped
     into giving to
charity organisations...
who... of the 3 quid
you donated...
send 2.50 to the offices
of the charity,
and 50 pence to
the people in need...
      
hajj...
sure... your pick...
thailand...
  south america...
there's a "you" than needs
to find you
somewhere,
that isn't hier...
but... "da"...
             a there
that has to be a certainty
             of somewhere...

see... it's almost tempting
to aim for shooting
an own goal via a headder
from a corner set-piece
into my own net...

            but me...
i'm somewhere between...
the existential crisis of...

satan contemplates a serpent
by gustav doré...
and...
   ruins (inner voices)
by james tissot..

            sure as hell...
          no brick in ruin
without a structure...
    someone about... how they
are stacked up...
are always identical...
but among the rubble...
          great... so satan begins
with the contemplation
of a serpent...
  me? ******* grand chav
of the universe?
     - and god said:
   'ere, start with a brick...
mr. ******* lego magic...
      throw a ******* dog's bone!

see if you can spot
the similarity
that binds these twins together...

  gustave doré's
the judgement of solomon...
and antonio ciseri's
           ecce ****...
no... no glaring similarity?
   so... solomon was right...
in giving the baby up
to the woman who had no measure
of her emotions
(stand to the left
in doré's interpretation,
while standing to the right
in ciseri's interpretation)?
    the heart of truth...
is the basis for being allowed
to throw a stone,
rather than climb a mountain...
or some wacko-saying
out-"there"...
  "there" also implying:
"out"? "out" of "what"
and what "in" to begin with?

given the current...
   Moloch tribunal / freedomi
base...
   given...
       a whole plethora of
examples...
        the way solomon is cast...
for the better judge...
the crowd moved pilate...
while his wife kept
it a secret
     that he judged wrongly...

doré:ciseri ratio of comparison...
and you'd think...
but it's not like i'm
attacking the psalm singer,
king david...
          it's solomon...
               he's no more sacred
than a h.i.v. infection...
looking at these two paintings...
i think he was wrong
in giving up the child
to the hysterical woman...
because there's always
than silent audacity,
invested in,
   of proving the king wrong...

only a silent heart doesn't
lie...
      there's just too much stoicism
in the woman's reply
regarding solomon's judgement...
akin to the wife of pontius
pilate...
succumbing to feeding
the amassed throng...

but this does't change
one iota of me
concerning my problem with
christianity,
given the emergence
of the nag hammadi
library...
       i can't just...
incorporate those writings
   as: level playing field
with the strictness of the unwavering
stance of dogma...

     i'm still having...
one hell of a time...
          trying to not be bothered
by the coincidence of
the writings of
josephus ben matthias...
the flight to egypt...
where the nag hammadi
library was discovered...
nero...
         the book of revelation
(which... i think was the first
book written
in the new testament...
no...
        no one has that sort
of coherency...
  listen...
    i don't even know the name
of my grandmother
on my paternal side!
    yeah...
at least the old testament begins
like a poem...
not a ******* phonebook
into the past!
   me? when Greek sentiments
alligned
themselves with the sentiments
of the Hebrews,
to topple the Romans...
who...
       first encountered
the northerners)...
   and guess what...
i'm rather fond of digging this
trench of...
whatever it is worth...
belief, disbelief...
      you name it...
better that, than converting to islam.

what do you call three girls passing
a hooded man in
the suburban labyrinth of england?
don't know in all honesty,
as i don't know what to call an
insomniac crow, mid-flight croaking
    in the night...
let alone perched on a cranium-like
representation of synapses
     conjured from a vinterbaum...
against a canvas of a cul de sac:
  a malfunctioning street lamp...
          hey presto! disco!
       have the strobe in there and all
that's missing is donning a wig of dreads...
at this point it would make sense
to bring stories back from
      Thailand...
                     ******* strobe...
   keeps irritating me like a magnified
insect blinking...
      or is that what you call a
coin-flip to coin a phrase or is that
slang, or is that:
            last time i checked the bul-gar
prostitutes
                 were not thai-trannies...
lately: i've come to understand
       crux signum as
                    pilate manibus...
              to have washed one's hands
is equivalent to have paid
the dutiful petition worth of prayer...
             there are actually two instances
to learn from on the basis of
image crafting...
        the over-exemplified crucifixion...
or pontius pilate washing
his hands clean, expressing
a form of: gambling...
          the acronym m.g.t.o.w.
                is an antithesis of gambling...
but there's still a privacy of requested
imitation...
             it's one thing to carry
one's own cross, toward Mt. Hamlet /
Golgotha...
                   and another to
consider moral hygiene...
         Pilate is "what" spawned Descartes...    
sorry, pronoun disco...
              i.e. the prominent
                  artefact of expressing doubt...
   and he washed his hands clean of
the matter,
          so that a body might be blodied:
suffice to say...
             masochrism...
              a ******* with a crucifix...
a second pontius pilate must have
been spawned after the nag hammadi
library emerged and the forgotten
lament of an alexandrian libraria...
   as much as the lament of
  what Genghis left of the Baghdad library:
skull upon skull,
                   and ash instead
                                        of book.
i know the lesson,
    in that i also know who conjured
an iron maiden...
        but as the matter stands:
     better to imitate pontius pilate,
                                    than to imitate crux;
for all its worth, a reminder of
   what the old slavs whisper:
                           but what of joseph?!
ah the romance up to the age of 33,
              but what of rigour and strictness
combined with discipline?
          suddenly: ave maria...
                           and joseph... in a gutter.

A rare farrago of strictness and softness together shadowing my life with enamoured blessings,
whose life revolves around me, a principled soul; my father.

The source of unconditional love, who reinforces the importance of my well-being over anything else and teaches how to be a better person; an angel masquereding as my mother.

Like an angel always glows, love and affection flows with tinges of cuteness,
and the pair of innocent eyes dazzles with my happiness; that is my grandmother.

Being the street light along the road you always show me the right path and make it worth walking.
My Family: My Biggest Strength.

through the forest: instead of running
simply walking
muddied feet
muddled tongue
  
                       if i could get away
from "getting away" i would call myself
by my name
in third person
and then wonder: what's with this
pronoun gymnastics that
is dumb-    -ing people
who think they are walking on eggshells
but instead: are:
walking on broken glass...

the mirror of the sky
and the mirror of the seas
how entwined without adjectives
sometimes
sometimes things are devoid
of adjectives

a mountain is a mountain is
Moses and Muhammad and they too
are: non-responsive in
definition...

lazily stomaching an afternoon
within a day:

i sNIGGER... snigger -
yet the added S- is somehow not so much
concerning the rest of the word
"somehow": "offensive"?

i'm still astounded by what visualization
was generated from Frank Herbert's
Dune... beside the rather unique
punctuation there is not much to swallow...

willows willows and some drool...
**** and pike and birches for all lost *******
like dissociation with dogs
having *** like we try to think "we" in
the royal sense: devising plans
to outstrip *** from function
like *** is devoid of function
of magnetism like
there is no synonym and no antonym

through the forest: perfect exercise for
both mind and body
not running: oh hell no... no running involved
just hunched for moments at a time
then upright...

sitting on a stump of what was formerly
a prided oak
on a throne of stump
i sat and pondered whether:
is Matthew a good person?

3 years this long distance "relationship"
lasted...
i gave up so much travesty of
the lived, personal, experience
that i found blind-spots concerning
fellow man
and felt more indulgent than
associating Goethe with the title: patriarch...

of whom? artists? like Shakespeare
isn't already the patriarch of actors... isn't he?!
not out of vanity or wounded self-esteem
but paper and ink are readily available
in that: they're no longer necessary...

and all these people attached to miniature
Apocalypses in their pockets
these soft-machine hullabaloos
feats of anti-engineering
it would almost, almost therefore: seemingly
be: best associated with...

seems almost idiotic to pressure the id
to overcome the ego
in the grand scheme of
psy: schematic: associating man with man
within himself:
under what metaphysical scalpel
were these 20th century intrusions:
ventures: in understanding man
how well man became understood
find foundations of such progress
in Auschwitz...

elsewhere life under the Quran was as if
a nightmare to which i woke into
seeing life undisturbed:
with the exception of the unavoidable
outliers akin
to the Pakistani **** gangs of Rotherham

voiceless dental fricative [θ]
or its voiced counterpart [ð]

i think that's the dire consequence
of not keeping check the evolutionary
strategy of language as
its own entity: self... minus my self:
my self: the reflective component
"v" / "vs" the reflexive myself strictness...

forget the aesthetics of spelling
and how it looks on paper...
through the forest
i walked with only one ear...
well... two ears...
but one ear was focused on the parody
of listening to music
while the other ear was honing in
on the furor of the birds
bothered by a pendite...

i literally unearthed this word, right now,
on the spot...
spot of ENSOO... in one sitting:
omicron omega omicron omega:
U turn up to Silon...
up to Silon... my version of Zion...

second-person plural present
             active imperative of pendō

and people come to me with these
iron maiden chambers of grammar solely
on the vestiges of stressing... *******...
pronouns?! seriously?!

what the **** does pendoo mean?
ha ha! well well... just my luck for resurrecitng
old tongues
while i baptized myself in the nettles!
oh the nettles!
i took my shirt off
i was going to take all my clothes off
and run into the nettles
i thought it might suckerpunch me good
to feel the itch crawl into my skin
if i also itched with my testicles
but then again: indecent exposure...
sufficed with rubbing nettles
on my shins
my forearms
my hands
plucked a stem
and rubbed it on my face
plucked a stem
and rubbed it on my chest and my back

like Husayn -
i became a martyr of self-doubt...
no... it was certain:
there was no affair
no cheating involved
but it would have been cruel
to give hope
when the realist in me knew:
perhaps i do not like my work
but i love the company i keep
at work...

i was thinking about the properties
of doing such a thing
hinging upon a story i once read
about Roman centurions throwing themselves
****-naked into nettles...
duck quack medicine...
chemo... no...
cherry chemistry CH CH CH
choo choo...
  "too many consonants" my scratched ***
and tilting halo: for ****'s sake...

DRAKA: DRADZA: DRA-     -JA
equivalent to DZ...

          quack... duck... medicine... ah!
lost a word for a moment:
HOMEOPATHY!
or hum-pathology: **-meo-pathy...
etymological: where?
    ** in Greek: meo mea yes yes
-pathy yes like -ology...

                   this tongue outside of my
mouth in my head
not exactly a rhetorical gift
but for the duty to interest:
i.e. being invested in being interested:
undying! preserved! mummified!

what comes now is a flood of memories:
one or two hiccups
but compared to what Edie was used
to with her experience of men...
over a stretch of 3 years
we only met twice
and we had Oppenheimer sort of ***

that's what happens when
a cryptic meander:
a recluse... yes yes: once or twice
in the brothel
but what i also learned
when *** is bought / exchanged
that rigid LIMP ******* ****
i'm trying to get my rocks off
want to lick her out
finger her and then she blurbs out:
that will be extra...
she also forgot to peel the banana
sorry
but she forgot what the ******* is
for and isn't for
and that was a waste of time
i ended up paying £130 for massaging her...

and that's what: in the heralded
wisdom of a 55 year old to a 38 year
some ******* clue:
oh yeah, yeah... the younger girls
are *****...
hornier: puppet: you have my strings?
seriously?
am i to believe that women
in the luxury of the menopause
are... wait wait...

  wait wait... menopausal women
are hornier: freer...
than their younger counterparts... period!
the end!
i've heard too much ******* to suffer
the fate of the gullible patrons of:
*** for pleasure...

   and she might have thought me an invalid
for not having secured a progeny
in child of my own
(a)

           but now i just see timidity breeding
fluorescence
if that's even possible whenever
i see women in that brackets of (18 - 45)
that's a good bracket to have...
invigorating: indispensable...
like this was my ONE NOTCH
and a belt of all those times
i wondered whether or not i had erectile
dysfunction: clearly not...

******* the brains out of an older woman:
trick came with the thrice tickle...
tasteless?
current affairs and political lies
are tasteless:
suffice to say that a sound reading
of Marquis de Sade coupled with some
sobering Kant and Bukowski's efforts
yes yes... all a matter of fact: stress...
a poem a day keeps the psychiatrist away

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrist away
so much for apples...
tangerines oranges snakes and ladders...

the realist spoke:
i was never going to leave London
for her
that dynamic of mother daughter
grandmother was strict and Christian-obligatory
i can't do Christian-obligatory
when you have suspicions of
the one and only heresy that is: hypocrisy...

i couldn't leave London for Kauai
i would hate waking up
driving past the golf courses of Princeville
and i would hate to live among
Americans
even if they were Polynesian half-winks
of what the genesis story is
of that vastness: i.e. Taiwan...
too much sun not even *****: ooh! azure!

i'm an urban rat
i need urban slang to surprise me
especially if it's coming from the youths
of Hackney and they're Somalis
or Nigerians ...
i feel sick whenever i travel back to Poland
and am stuck with an ethnic homogeneity

too much white on white
i once stated already that: the future is mixed race...
for all the ills and ailments
we need a genetic vibrancy
and one way is to breed:
no sorry... that **** is on AUTOPILOT right
now... as natural as gravity...
but at least black women will stop
wearing wigs
and their half-kin will have a full crop
of hair and there will be no more
*****-slapping concerning alopecia...
perhaps no teeth-whitening envy too:
orange skin tan peel: blinding ivory: ugh!

                        only in Essex...

plus! i don't want to come across as some
invalid
but i really really don't need a car in London
sure i'm heading to Poland
to get a driving license in September
but that's just a formality blah blah blah
but over there: bicycle: bad bearings...
knock-knock buckling...

             England is an island but Kauai
is a whirlpool of existential constipation
that's equivalent to: ha ha... claustrophobia...
oddly enough it was just that...
plus summer is coming
and with that Wimbledon
and the concert season
and the Euro finals and being a tourist
of bad-mouthed Ahmed Ahmeds
flying in from Sow-Di Land of
the free peoples of Putinphilia... well: you know...
blah blah...

           yes: i am the bad man...
because i'm the realist and i wanted the memory
bank to implode then explode into
stretching time:
that non-linear point of having
a concern for time...
a stretching and juxtaposition of time
and that's also QUANTUM TIME...
as much as i might enjoy the quantum space
of my bedroom and me kneeling
before the bed and typing this out...

memory = quantum time

                       i can play with it as much as i can:
with the additional fervor of having
memory intact outside
of the realm of pedagogic infringement
and acidity once upon a time
constricted by learning irrelevant facts:
it's like: why do they teach us biology
when they know none of us will
be doctors or at least most
why don't they teach us nutrition in school
help us focus on the entire body
rather than bulldozer our experience of
youth with talk of *******
thrombocytes and chlorophyll?

          pedagogy is outdated - clearly:
if it weren't for a self-assured want to grasp
etymology / other languages...
beside from the basics of arithmetic and some
grasp of letters: although nuance
that sound to the letters presented
and what dyslexia is there to be spoken of?

ah ha ha... blah blah...
for all my afternoons to revolve around such
joy: to write.

relentlessly unyielding
what am i to do but apologize
a leash does not affect the facts
nor can such a thing be held with strictness

i shouldve known it would only be
a disgustingly short matter of time
and in such a repulsively simple moment
but of course that is when i am
an unguarded unsuspecting witness

crushed to the ground at your feet
kneeling in pools of tears and guilt
dare i even ask such undeserved forgiveness

There was this lawyer
Who kept his cases
In his case file
In which the victim
Died, he would burn them
When the judge asked for prima facie evidence
He would ask for an extension
Since, the family was too distraught
To trust anyone
So the courts threw the case out in an evidentiary hearing
Due to the pending paperwork
Many people died as far I recall
But not many saw justice, sadly
Only when they found the lawyer burning the papers
Did they realize they had a serial offender
But, courts don't press charges for dubious cases
When the judges heard of the lawyer
They observed strictness in the courtroom
The lawyer had basically burned the evidence
Which was the dead corpus, the case had died with the body

We are all gifted
in different ways we are made
as infinity plays and giggles
expressing its abundance in form

but it is so hard to remember when
the strictness of dogma
and judgement get in the way

art is powerful
but an act of kindness is just as profound


we are all gifted
all these little desires
make us just right
and prepare for what is meant for us
what feels so familiar it cannot leave us