now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

Growth prevaded by a soil of emotions, rain of memories engraving the seed for a flower awaiting to bloom, the gift of life in a moving motion of time, forming and structuring the inner beauty of one,
Over years the spring of this beauty blossoms depending on the deeds, deepest wishes such as kindness and intuitions majestically,
A righteous soul will truly stand proud in the sun, alike a helianthus,
A trecious persons flower will be dead, as if it was drought, burnt in the heat of summer, the sweet aroma of life will still fill the air,
Caught in endless change of a devils distorted, desperate working,
The servants have the chance to either change for the better or to be ruined in their transient existence, fading into the dust they came of,
Beauty cast in the heart remains forever with enough care and work,
So this flower shall never rot, as long as it is protected with a desire and will to do good, to be gentle and truthful, thoughtful and wise,
Compassion, greatness and deep loving concern are a fertilizer,
Spread this kindness and you may have planted the seed for another beautiful child of the earth; A precious flower

~ Umi

.all this is suggesting is: i'll meet you half-way; given that "this" question was always going to hover over "us", given that there's a disparity between English: a people, and English: a language... evidently the natives cannot begin to envision themselves as a lingua franca peoples... no wonder, their language has been "hijacked".... the "xenophobia", but like kevin spacey said: well, i'm here, am i suddenly supposed to, *******? playing the ******* *****-eyed poodle is not on the cards, but at the same time, it's hard to envision this language, as a people... given all the infringing demands of the anglo-saxon economic model into areas, where displacement is rife, subsequently... i can understand the concern of the natives, given that i didn't transgress the base principle: don't **** their women. see what a mild spaghetti-custard blip of history we're getting into? i am expected to integrate, but i'm not expected to integrate. i am somehow expected to be told to do what others want, but at the same time, i'm expected to protect my individual rights... no "parallel" anlogy akin to a catherine perry song? no kitty-*******, just around the corner? i can see islam... you know its prime sense of failure? that arabic would and never will, become given the same lingua franca status of english... you're complaining, or is it me stating the facts? evidently is a language reaches a lingua franca potentiality and subsequent expression, the natives will suffer... i'm not a native, but i can only imagine... what the consequences are... being ram-packed with excesses in ***** purchases... so much for a protected status of international economic ventures... like: i am waiting for the intra-national economic counters... can't see them coming, or i can see them, in a Casandra conundrum variation. there's still the topic of the natives... rarely can the English be allowed an outsider perspective without a sediment of their language being used, by a foreign entity... now, or never, why? you have somewhere important to be at as of: tomorrow? can you blame the natives, given that their language is a lingua franca, and not just, relegation to a national idiosyncracy "pH scale" differentiation? as a foreign entity, you know what i've learned from living on the most outer aspects of London? sure as **** it's not Cheltenham... i speak the tongue, i'm no genius, it's only English after all, it's hardly anything near Mandarin... what i feel sorry for, are the jihadi buggers who were born here, and were never taught their native sprechen... whatever the hell happened to English, and what Islam is jealous of, it came about naturally... arabic was never supposed
to become the standard bearer, the lingua franca of commerce and disinhibiting individuals entrenched... which, implies? i can look at the natives, with a more piercing dedication: excuses... excuses could be had, if, your, language, wasn't as "******" as it currently is... seems like i've reached a status of post-integration... now, i'm asking the language, the sort of application usage cruxes, that a native, simply wouldn't.

                         there's just so much
                           baggage,
that madmen
can carry,
for the "sane" standard
bearers of civilization,
of civility...
    at least some
of these outliers have
the *****
to not cower behind
an insanity plea...
     most of the madmen?
imagine
a tiger in a cage...
after a while...
          the tiger becomes
tamed by
zoological structuring
of its day-to-day...
and everyone's happy...
but that doesn't make
the tiger into a *******
bonsai, a feline "companion"...
beside the point...
  it's when some medical
conditions are slandered,
exposed to metaphor,
misnomer,
             that the madmen
receive the package
of social constraints
"levitating" just above
the state of being dormant...
but in this scenario:
well... that settles it...
now we know what
a level-playing-field looks like...
intellect,
and the debacle concerning
trust...
               well...
i've learned of trust
the upside-down way...
    relationships,
notably with a russian
specimen...
              me, ******,
why was i thinking i wouldn't
be ****** over?
   oh... right...
i can claim all
the responsibility with
what i "did" with a *******...
but when it comes
to the "affair" of a woman:
of free disposition,
i'm suddenly the culprit...
psychic trenches,
there "we" are,
entrenched in some plateau
of what seems to be
Belgium,
   and there "they" are,
entrenched in the same
plateau...
            sigh sigh, one more
for the party...
point being,
   people have not unearthed
the + + + + +
aspect of this debacle...
it's now a level playing field...
everyone is suspect,
everyone is limited...
a true: forensic quest for
democracy...
  all the other incidents
came and went,
always, as if: in passing...
  so this incident can also
come, and go, in passing...
solidarity to what?
to whom?
or rather: with?
            i can deal with this
sort of indigestion
surrounding my day to day,
but before long:
what other sop-story is
supposed to grab my attention?
clarity of intent,
   unlike someone experiencing
a psychotic break-down
of the psychic labyrinth...
a transcendence of
the categorical incentive...
somehow:
  the categorical imperative
was never supposed to mean:
what it meant to begin with...
the categorical imperative
has somehow lost the whole:
living by the standard
of a maxim...
               given that all maxims
are true...
  much harder to "test the waters"
with aphorisms...
            sure,
observable facts,
    then...
               disinhibited fictions...
glorification?
  today i had a problem
killing an ant...
   i was taking a ****
and had a problem killing
a moth that decided to freak
out the inanimate objects
of the bathroom...
       yeah: oh sure, sure,
i'm all for Herod's "conundrum"...
point being:
   we now know what
both sides feels...
         we now know...
       that there are outliers
on either side of the "debate"...
one: i am suspect,
but two: so is the counter-suspect...
no sacred cows...
   no: i think i'll just milk
a muslim in new dehli
for the jyst and thrill of a per se...
- at least now:
s.j.      w?
                or the conservative
mediator crowd of:
      there for the sake
of outrage only on the behalf
of outrage-in-itself?
past the phenomenon,
i can only return to the anti-phenomenon
of the noumenon (per se)...
which is not disappointing,
seeing how the whole "feel"
of it is begs the crux
fathomability of the individual...
just another skim read /
listen to the modern day
                          pharisee...
heavy sighs,
   blinded eyes...
frivolous waggling tongues...
but deep down,
most of the people are
content with having to experience
a revision...
  the revision being:
a level playing field...
   behring just attacked
the elites...
this?
    this dog ***** pile of
media attention?
         good...
        now everyone's uncertain...
i'm not afraid to think it,
and put it into writing...
    after a while:
   you just tire...
   you get tired of hearing
just one side of the story...

      what could leave someone
extreme: glee "riddled"
just leaves me exhausted...
     but at least the schizophrenics
are off the hook...
at least there's still some
belief in personal restraints...
even with a debilitating condition...
at least these people
are not facing the collateral
stereotyping of someone
with: the clarity of intent...

         there's just me, at this point,
thinking to myself:
and why did "they" drug me
to the point of:
making "them" feel uncomfortable...
clearly my mental faculties
have not been
                 car-crash dimished...

welcome the new hybrid...
soul mongrel...
           what is it about the polacks
that has made them so...
immune?
     i guess only recently
Poland has celebrated
the centenary of independence...
i wouldn't know,
i'm strapped to England
in metaphorical strait-jacket
  (what is metaphor
compared to metaphysics?),
   sober, drunk,
drunk, sober, etc.
               i was given a crash-course
in multiculturalism,
i guess i assimilated...
   back in school there was
the popular irish gang...
and there was "my" group...
of all the outliers...
   we used to spend lunch breaks
playing cards...
but when i heard news that
i would only be fully integrated,
once i gave up my native tongue
which i used to speak in
private?
    that broke the camel's back...
the centenary of independence
of Poland...
i wouldn't know...
i'm in "exile"...
   which is: economic "war"
came to where i come from
after the fall of the soviet pact...
and...
                every time i go back
to visit my grandparents...
i am only associated
with that country by speaking
the language...
and boy, it's not so ******* rosy
on the inside, compared to what
is being pushed to the outside...
Poland is like a: death-zone...
**** me, even the Hungarians
know how to ***** themselves
when it comes to tourism...

    i am, in "exile"...
            come to think of it,
most of the Muslims in the west
have it worse,
but i blame their parents...
i had one Pakistani friend
in high-school...
   now that i succumb to
reminiscence... yep...
he spoke perfect Urdu;
    but all these outliers?
   what their parents did...
****** themselves into
an integration mechanism...
not retaining their mother tongue?
like all these,
western jihadi prospects...
speak about 10 words of arabic,
and they are "attempting"
to compensate...
   i somehow feel for them,
a complete mine-field
of a mind-****...
       like being impreganted
by a virus,
a cancer...
     the linguistic dysphoria...
so yeah: if everyone would please
like to make heavy scrutiny
of the blatantly obvious,
regarding the genital region,
and forget a sobering note of
worthwhile problems,
namely the language dysphoria
of muslims, in England,
feel free to keep looking
at the genital "problem"...
            
clearly there's a dysphoria horizon,
i would know,
given that i have retained
my mother tongue...
but they haven't...
               and all they want is probably
so little...
   i remember that my father
once called me
the bellybutton of the world...
referencing me as
   an english child...
  that's how the Polacks view
the English: the bellybuttons
of the world, center of attention,
yada yada...
                 gender "dysphoria"...
you have to be *******
kidding me...
              what about the language
dysphoria of Muslims
                    in the (v)vest?

jak to się mówi:
            tym co się od razu, ma?

i can understand the language
dysphoria, well,
being a 1st generation immigrant...
i can't imagine being
born to 1st generation immigrants,
not retaining my native
tongue,
   knowing only the tongue
of integration,
   it would feel alien...
   like i was impregnated
by a foreign body,
   retaining nothing of my "******"
natural resources...
so... the problem we've arrived at
is very real...
  more real than gender dysphoria...

hopefully i'm less "schizoid"
at the end of this marathon,
and more: relieved to be merely
bilingual...
entrenched bilingual -
            so no, not a polymath...
or rather: not a polyglot;
my maternal great-grandfather
apparently was,
spoke 7 languages,
disappeared somewhere near
Niagara Falls...

   the plan was: England, stop-over...
via Argentina
   and toward the U.S.,
****... seems i was side-tracked
into remaining,
being shackled to these isles.

Deny we the possibility of order
Ignore we an Outside Law
Suggest we an endless possibility
Worlds without end
Positions simultaneous
Moving in all directions or none
Claim we the future as ours

Defy we realities of law external
Look we inward-outward simultaneously
To become one or none or all
Reject a single story
Saw we the Arms from Truth
Reduce we the Other to I

Forget we the order of Universes
Without-Within
The clockwork structures
Atomic
Celestial
Genetic
Physical
Biological
In and or-ganic

Reorder or Retell we the Cyclical Tales
Birth and Rebirth
Seasons and Times
Journeys of stars swirling through space
Endless flights of planets
Endless migrations of living things
Each rhyming to universal rhythms
Watts and amperes circular-linear mysteries
Predicting futures from their undisputed histories

Deny we external truth
Held here in the gracious grasp of gravity
Warmed gently by a tolerant star
Inhabitants of a universe
Unable to explain itself
Or even how its atoms came
To repel and to attract
In perfect tensions
Or to unleash energies
Predictable and measurable
In milliseconds and millenniums

---------------------------

Marionettes macabre
Cut loose from our strings
Dancing slowing dirges
Proclaiming opening spaces
Beneath closed skies
Denying a Maker
Rejecting hymnody to sing
Ditties laden with lies.

Aligned to unite
With others who lost their way
It’s a mess we perceived
To those in dismay
These lines create dreams 
For the broken
For the ones never spoken-
Of Love & Courage

Conjuring up notions of time
Structuring of desires preludes
To pursue what’s lost 
To preach and beseech truth
Faith denotes eternally
Surviving pain and deceit
What speaks only bleeds
To fabricate amity

Not fazed by power
But to denote greed
Greed of Love & Passion
Exhaling Hate & Deception
To succor the pillar of fate
To exist in this factual state

Your heart's a fragile thing. 
Everyone’s heart is. 
Don’t ever contaminate hatred
Contaminate love instead.

Scared,  to let the words die, he hid, amid the languid luxuries of solitary structuring, lavished of the jaded and anguished lines, for lines melodrama, of the deviled days, of state, of mind, in fate, in kind, of the nether commas, devoid in honest ignorance of written words, dying on the caterpillars, cocooned, in all that's assumed, lost, in metamorphosis, never knowing this, is a dream, within a dream, of hope, clinging with stinging fingertips, ears ringing in the ripplits of a synesthesic pulse of visual signals, subliminally sounding the sirens, of solidarity, in the silent screams, of the sun rising, writhing in wanton seduction of my functions laying the heartened words of dead birds, falling from the sky, hardened in sloven cries, to justify, the means, tapping out on the screens, of a misnomer, a loner, in a coma, phoning you from the corner to warn ya, of the storm, in words prone to patience, in imaginit immaculance of the limitless limits, of livid lovers loving each-others lullabies, lolly-gagging in the illegibility, of our lucidity in the pity of leveled lofts, lovely-ly, levitating in elevating thought, fraught with passionate poetry, of ghostly words, blurred in the debilitating reasoning of reasonable reason, seasonally.

Our galaxy, a ship, speeding into the depths, of deep space, a casualty in permit, heeding the concepts, of our place, in space-less mass, glimmering from the cast, of gods, even from the cracks and smog, we move along the path, of our intent, hell bent to extend our wrath, upon the woes of men, unknown to the myriad angles, in the dangled essence, of the limitless blessings, in the finite structuring, of negative nothings, filling our hearts of imagination, manifesting, in our epiphanies recollections, of days gone, but came back to be, born freely, looping infinitely, simultaneous, in every possibility of personally realized realities, realizing themselves in sunless helms of technology, merging with the organics of our being, and seeding, the start of everything.

you see, i came to england when i was eight years old, and i still retain the primitive early structuring of being born in poland, e.g. i identify my father from the ages of 4 to 8 as a voice on a telephone and the odd package of gifts, my mother between the age of 6 to 8 as a mad doberman a parting gift... and the fact that i can't read philosophy books in english but in polish, whereby i translate what i read into english... the english language is terrible at expressing itself philosophically, too much shrapnel (i.e. too many little words in between graffiti like usage of the bigger words: conjunctions, prepositions, articles over-burden such catchphrases like zeitgeist, global capitalism etc.), i read poetry and fiction in english, but philosophy i read in polish; and i do speak four languages in that i can speak posh anti-essex-accent english, speak a polish accentuation of english, speak plain polish and speak pleb village-idiot polish; polish immigrants are overweight to soar like canadian geese introduced into england because of the trill of the r (mind you, introducing grey squirrels mirrored the seemingly perpetual overcast of the english weather) - indeed, the english use of the letter r is tongue-numbing-curl - instead of trilling the r the english curl it like an apprehensive turtle / hedgehog - and too the oddity of the h, hatch hay-puck-itch hey-a-haystack? two of the many more linguistic anomalies in the english tongue included.*

that's the problem i have integrating
into a post-colonial multicultural
society, i know i should celebrate
the english defence of poland should
a war with germany take place,
the short lived re-emergence of poland
quickly gulped up by the joint
expedition of **** german and soviet russia,
the exported government of poland
to london, the plight of polish and english
pilots over the skies of england in
the battle of britain, i should technically
be experiencing a great assimilation sensation,
but multiculturalism has really complicated
things, esp. when you turn on the radio
a first hear things about the emergence of
recorded sound, the gramophone,
the iconic jack terrier before the machine
and a very old acronym of music outlets:
h.m.v. (his master's voice),
or that in poland - knowing of the mass emigration
of poles to england the tabloid newspaper
the sun is cited with the highest credibility
(never mind the toned down **** on page 3
of that newspaper, which prompted *******
to do likewise) - currently i'm sifting through
the power broker pages of the newspaper
the times, i.e. the editorial pages, just
after the opinion pages... you see, the editorial
pages are almost anonymous, they're filled
with a major investment, high profile
people (usually professors and sirs and what not)
seeking attention of the editor, beginning with
something like: sir, at a time when european
challenges of security... and then indeed about
three articles of unchallenged dialectics by
the editor himself, e.g. (monday march 7 2016)
headlines: an autocrat in ankara; plan obsolescence;
cripes! (https://goo.gl/EzCbDO),
as i said, i find it overbearing to integrate into
english society, it's paradoxical actually,
so i have to integrate (tick), speak the tongue (tick),
become eloquent and gentlemanly (tick)...
but i can't acquire the history (a prime social
relation coordinate), and i certainly can't feel
pride... unlike those from the colonies integrating
and feeding this strange strange national pride
of identifying england as if by them originally
possessed; maybe three years in scotland fed
my alienation, i really did love mingling with
the scots, the only place on these islands where
the presence of the irish is limited by that
funny existential curiosity of a sikh speaking
a wee trill here, a wee trill there...
maybe that's it... because, you see, the oddity
comes after hearing the story of rash behari bose,
the one who was the shadow of peaceful gandhi...
who spoke like adolf ****** who actually
collaborated with ****** to no avail, who
then collaborated with the japanese -
how am i to assimilate into english society if english
society is a barren wasteland where newton
and michael faraday used to roam?
i'm just too bewildered in this sense of integrating
like a prerequisite of becoming a chameleon -
it's nauseating just to think of it - all this
psychological complexity to simply use a tongue
that's favoured for commerce and political
stagnation into the iron stage of a status quo
of russian and chinese oligarchs creating
a mortgage inflation from their power-source
that's london? this immediate sense of what used
to be mass propaganda has turned into
mass political correctness, same ****, different cover,
i really don't know how to integrate fully,
esp. with faked results that disallow falsification
because they're already false in that would-be
"science" of psychology which is just a crippled
humanism... how can you be a serious psychologist
when you focus on the interchange of the invading
barbarian word self and then become pompous
with so many theorisations of a single sound, ego?
after all we're, in the majority using the sound self
as an affirmative of 'i'm here, yes, check the utility
manual of my spine moving my fingers typing,
no descartes wasn't trying to prove he existed,
don't be stupid, what, because such a proof is
not compatible with you after his death proves
he was trying to prove himself a recipient? i too
buckle on the nonsense of some people, even my own
is worth a rusty door hinge and doorknob.'
and poetry will always remain the safeguard medium
of abstracting, poetry isn't a happy science as one
man suggested dying at the dawn of the 20th century...
poetry's eager spontaneity makes it an abstracting science,
there's no point arguing truth, in that abstraction is
required to cite a momentary pigmentation of
the everyday grey realism with a poem.

when reading spinoza i find that:
  the mere word god is the best lubricant
to utilise when structuring language -
since god: remains in the domain
of language, and this language is
bound to thought, rather than
lunatic procrastination of prayer -
thought is not a duty: it's a leisure...
which is why i find atheists so pedantic
and pseudo-atheists even more
pedantic demand a genital sphere
of god - a word, or rather, a noun
that gives origin to all other nouns...
and if i were to truly make a "******"
distinction, after the difficulties or reading
two or three germans,
    this dutch jew is like what a woman
might think when moisturising
a baby's *** with ointments or
powder...
                  all i have is a rod -
and my child is in the crevice of a grave,
and if it ever has a womb to
insist upon, it's my mind -
the womb of man is his mind which
extends into the grave -
  and from the grave the child
answers...
which is why i have no affiliation
with living authors, none...
        reading spinoza after having
finished reading heidegger is like finding
the most unimaginable ease -
to read heidegger or kant
you have to be an atlas -
but when spinoza writes:
   it's like watching an autumnal leaf
tornado down to the ground -
spiralling in a ballerina poise -
    only when the truly difficult has
been carried, is the apparently
  "hellishly" difficult all the more
easier to be carried across the valley
of shadow, grit grime and gangrene...
   yet if we do share genitals as
what they are intended for:
  then man also possesses a womb:
the mind...
  the mind in man is the equivalent
of the womb in womb...
yet the difference is:
each of man's children is born of
death - a still born excited by
a dancing partner of your ego engaging
with it, lost, abandoned, hushed:
dusted over...
  never will these children
     feel the touch of oils upon their
buttocks, only haemorrhoids from
sitting on cold gravestone marble...
   and can you just imagine as to how:
the birth of man takes so much longer
than the biological birth of man
via woman?
                sometimes it takes a near
estimate of 2000 years to give birth of
man,
  or it takes 2000 or so years to finally
cut off the umbilical chord feeding
the *******, given archaeological findings
in egypt, and abort this ******* child...
to spare: the good man, joseph.
      yet the ease with which spinoza
nonchalantly uses the word god,
  un-found in modern atheists,
  who constantly barrage the word with
hurdles, obstructions,
   the mere mention of the word
without a suggestion of a being / non-being
ever being made convincing -
  it's simply a word that glides across all others,
obstructing the mere use of the word
suggests a belief in a being,
  rather than a fluidity of the language -
i'm actually surprised why atheists
do not consist of merely stutterers...
      a word among words does not
just happen to convince me to imagine -
yet if all casualness of the word is
curbed, and we are dealing with people who
actually use the word to imply:
   some concrete, aren't we really dealing
with atheistic hysterics?
                just a few aphorisms of
spinoza and you start to walk on water...
i think in the inverted circumstance of
not possessing a womb,
   but sharing opposite genitals to a woman,
hence i must possess the opposite
of a womb... i too must accommodate
a fetus of some sort...
    sure, it's dead, but with each dead
fetus in the womb of my mind -
  i bring about a morphing of the dead into
living, like frankenstein (mary shelley,
probably the only woman that i respect) -
i revive it, it morphs, i die, someone else
picks it up, morphs it...
   abortions are not as bad as when you
think about it masculine terms:
how people are ridiculed, defamed,
             misinterpreted -
e.g. heidegger being a ****...
        that sort of **** breeds my fancy
had i the wealth of my childhood uttering
the words: imagine impregnating a woman
with wolf *****...
   i'm pretty sure i said that...
                 or male ***** with
a chimpanzee...
                       auschwitz seems pale by
comparison...
                         but god almighty,
spinoza is dancing in my head -
   he's punching, kicking like a woman
would say when the fetus is near maturity -
obviously a man's version of the womb
does not breed in situ amphibians precursors
of mammal,
but then we're less the missed
connection of the ape, and more?
  A ******* WHALE!
                     whales are mammals...
and are we not the titans of this world?
    and does not this neurosis of using
the word god not begin with:
curbing the enthusiasm of giving oaths?
that the now apparent desert plains were
once great mountain ranges?
what, they're ******* with the big bang,
i'm ******* with geology...
   the great mountain range of Gobi -
the Saharayas (sahara,
  like the Himalayas, once upon a time) -
and so the ancient egyptians "thought":
****! mountains used to be here!
  let's build a nostalgic piece of architecture!
wa'h la'h! you got the ******* pyramids of giza!
they're were write about something,
their dreams reconstructed a very, very
ancient piece of fact:
there was no reason to build
mountain like structures in a desert,
unless they had been faxed by their ancestors
the intuitive speculation that the deserts
were once mountain ranges, eroded by:
millions and millions of years...
                         welcome to porta stella.

It was time to do some re - structuring
In - house changes were necessary to bring
about better performance, modernization
otherwise we'd be left behind with no motion

He spent his time leaning on a *****
doing nothing, not good enough we're afraid
then a quiz programme with as much charisma
as a wet fish - now we wouldn't want to be churlish

However, contract has expired, you're fired
from your duties - we're moving on to new things
anything must be better than what dullness brings
we may not use your services again -going

'Well gentlemen, that's another one gone
who shall we get rid of next so long.'

Gawking at the screen
I convene here
What words should I accumulate?
Tonight
Vocabulary building up
Structuring the tallest and widest of sentences
One hand, I hold a dictionary
At the desk,Is my thesaurus
Matching wits with myself
How do I use partial vowels?
Grammar mostly perplex
To a perfect sentence
No other quotations is near
An average line is over due
What imprison me from being incomplete?
An unexplainable sentence
Of writing
On a foggy Monday
As I awaken
By touching
A blank sheet of paper

and now, i too, can jest, waving the brick,
the 20th century's Odyssey,
so too Ulysses, father of, this cantos poet,
it's a well worn book,
to make books like leather, the older
the better, lost the colt stink of freshly
peeled, leather rather than fur,
so too, i, can now close the book and leave
it's ancestry in lost conversation among
the living in cafés and pubs,
so now i can give you a bewilderment i too
am aware of: the chaos of kept Latin
geometrics, style, indeed orthography with
accent here and there, but to dwell on
the past like that, per se, prae se or any such
coercion to disregard the general public,
no surprises with such a pompous raucous,
elephants and stilettos, mass and weight,
bouncing on the moon, the sheer chaos
of how the barbarians lost runes and incorporated
the gaps, i.e.: a, e, o, p, R, b, B, Q, g, d...
                       with Hindu 0, 9, 8, 6, 4...
or as Arabs say: our ten commandments.
but still the chaos, once meaningful now meaningless,
hence programming, encoding, data structuring,
fish tanks think tanks, and SLANG, or SHLANG
as i call it, impromptu youth too cool for school:
still don't know what you're talking about...
the lettering survived because their arithmetic
that gave us beauty like the Coliseum and marble
testicles (later missing with castrato hosanna
in excelsis deo - o took a baritone stance) -
the fall of the Roman empire? all due to
                      I + VI = VII
                      XI + V = XVI.
                                               everyone was like... huh?
can you really **** around with these symbols
in modern physics and mathematics?
... no thanks... we'll keep the alphabet but bring
you down on your mathematics...
but have you seen the Appleton Tower in
Edinburgh? or the library in George Sq.?
you haven't... both are hardly Islamic mosaics and
minarets. as many curves and glitches of beauty
as the models on a catwalk during London's fashion week;
anorexic imagination: keep it square and bony,
me and my godforsaken x-ray vision.
so suma summarum:
it began with: and then went down to the ship...
but ended up with the ship being a gondola
i.e. you in the dinghy (piccioletta) astern there!
i'm not even going to read the drafts & fragments
section (CX - CXVII - C X C V - or the curriculum vitae).

Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.

Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.

Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.

Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.

Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.

Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.

Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.

Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.

The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.

Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.

Its lovely here.

Laughing in the lashes.

Signing my entrapment's.

Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.

Sometimes

It just feels right to be alive.

Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.

Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.

Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.

Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.

Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.

Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.

Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.

Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.

The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.

Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.

Its lovely here.

Laughing in the lashes.

Signing my entrapment's.

Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.

Sometimes

It just feels right to be alive.

It's time, I think
I'm ready?
How do I know for sure?
Laying on this bed with
emotions flowing through my mind;
What if I'm not ready?
A long breath fills up my
mouth as I realized what I
wanted to do.
"Let's do it." I said.

Did I just say that out loud?
I started to tremble,
scared of the pain, the pleasure,
the thought of it.
I started to feel his touch,
as he went straight to it.
Kissing me softly, I feel his
warmth, tingling my senses.
What is this feeling?
Why am I acting up?
Still scared but not wanting
it to stop.

The slow, soft feeling
started to increase rapidly,
as I felt his kiss shifting
all over my body.
Lick, the feeling of licking,
excited me.
It started to sting my body
marking its place
as I felt the fading
of the mist it left on
my smooth skin.
I lay there taking in the pleasures
he fulfilled,
the warmth of his sweet lips.

What is happening?
I started to breathe with
such force as he started
to feel the mist with
his fingers.
Slowly structuring my body
with his hand, his touch.
I felt imprisoned by his touch
and as I took in his delicious scent,
I was paralyzed once more.
A prisoner of my own heart
I let him take over me,
caressing me and pleasuring me
in ways that I never thought possible.

My heart, now beating out of my chest
I knew what was next or so i thought;
I tried to prepare myself mentally
taking deep breaths, somewhat panting.
Panting as i close my eyes,
squeezing it, as questions flowed
in my mind.
What will it feel like?
How will i react..
I already couldnt control myself,
feeling weak all over,
as he had me under his spell,
under his control.
What is happening?

There was no turning back now
I had already dug myself in way too deep;
I decided i'd take control,
as our lips danced our positions changed
I was the one on top now.
I had the power and as his eyes rolled back
I knew that it was satisfying.
A triumph of song started to
come through our voices,
louder and louder it gradually
formed.
Reacting in a way i never thought
I would be able to do.
The reflexes i had,
resulted in a new person in me.
Ssassy and passionate it indeed was.
Singing through the movement of
the wind.

I felt as though our hearts were now beating as one,
our souls connected through this intimate action
it was perfect, beautiful and amazing beyond words
I didn't want it to end, we were now in our own world
nothing else mattered, it was just me and him
two bodies, two hearts, intwined together to fuse
the perfect passion, the perfect love.
A love forming into an excitement
a feeling of pressure, and great pleasure
it yanked me out of my mind
becoming loose and feeling something,
something weird, something I've never felt before
faster, we moved, the wind blowing through
the flow.
What was entering my system, what has my body
engaged in creating.

With no control my body started asking
for more, more pleasure,
as it once more increased its speed.
our songs turning into screams now,
as the pressure was getting too much.
Too much for both of us, too much
to handle in one gesture.
"I think it's coming." he said
coming!? what's coming?
I started to panic,
what am i supposed to do?
But still, my body didnt want to stop,
it was ready for it,
but my mind was still frightened.
He started to concentrate on the movement,
pulling my body onto his, forcing me,
exciting me.

He started to growl, realizing
that it was coming.
I prepared myself as he pulled me
once more, with great pressure,
it got me to a surprise, as he held me tight
having the flow gradually separating in me.
We collapsed, side by side, breathing hard
in one sound.

We were both breathless but satisfied.
We lay there, without a single word leaving our lips
we knew that it was the beginning of forever
as we lay there, eternity seemed to pass over us
nestling my head into his neck
I breathed in his scent once more
and whispered soft words into his ear
this was it, he was the one
and then we fell asleep, embraced in eachothers arms.

As i shape stanzas, Adam Lanzas **** the cameras, in glamorous stands up, against the manners of actors, in the matters of forgotten factors, in a world gone bananas, I still cant stand us, even when we are dead.

I have tried every side of the bed to no diligence unchecked, in a nervous wreck of annoyance coining in and destroying it, for a bonus, its bogus to know us, but i'm owning it yet, with no regrets and loose concepts to be swept to *****, and on my feet.

I'm obsolete, and my talk is cheaper than most, as i host my feats in a single page, post heathen faze incomplete, as it is only so lonely in the frozen face of flattery, where i may fill my battery, but nothing more, in boring affordability, storing dreams for safe keeping to a later day that may never be, but hey, what does it matter anyway, i will either be, or not be.

I may be just lapsing in luxury, rupturing the subtlety of my structuring around the scars of brain parts too far to reach.

Lets meet on middle grounds with silent screams and loose eyes, fiddling the sounds and singing for the criers, expiring behind less than inspiring doors.

I am just bored, praising the lords of a more recordable source, reliably on course, with a deplorable force, endorsing the chores of servitude, never meaning to be rude, as i enjoy my solitude, while in the employ of the gratitude for what i got, but im not...

That boy anymore, my wonder turned wandering and i will never be that baby again, nor alone, so let go, in knowing the flow can be trusted in showing us something more, said the slave to his *****, before a morbid torrent to show her core to the floor of a showroom, vacuumed into space, awakening to the fate, of monotonous finality, praying to randomly generated gods, for the fogs of war... or anthing more, than this.

I don’t know how to feel about anything anymore,
I just don’t,
It’s neither here nor there,
Not hidden just never gotten to,
I can never fully open up to anyone,
But then again who really can?

Sometimes I feel empty,
But I soon remind myself how selfish it is to feel that way,
How much suffering there is in the world,
How much I have to be thankful for,
But it’s not the things I have that make me happy,
It’s the people I know and the connections I have.

The only sadness I harness commences from the loss of human contact,
With the loss of a friend,
Being away from family,
Feeling like we’ll never be the same again,
No matter what it’s like I can always be to blame,
For something.

For not stopping what’s wrong,
For not doing what’s right,
It’s always a matter of what’s next,
Who’s next.

Sometimes I feel tears coming on,
But I don’t let them come out,
My chest tightens,
I feel weak; and the sick cycle perpetuates.

But I know it’s nothing out of the ordinary,
Everyone must feel this way,
All people are the same,
I wish they would realize that.

Maybe I am an idealist,
But at least I have a vision,
A vision similar to King’s,
More demanding but less articulated,
I have a dream that one day everything will be ok,
Everything.
I know that can happen.

But they say I’m different,
They mean it in a good way,
So I take it as a compliment,
I’m too shy to ask for clarification,
In fear that I might seem conceited,
Asking to hear more about myself,
Today though, I asked.

He said it’s because I’m not like anyone else,
Well. That certainly didn’t answer my question,
And even if it did, it didn’t make me feel any better,
After all everyone is different from everyone else.

No one thinks the same way,
No one has all the same experiences,
Nor do they formulate the same reactions or reflections,
I believe that if I had started dictating these thoughts a millisecond before or after I did, that they would be completely different,
Not because my thoughts would be changing,
Rather because the kaleidoscope of our minds are always tumbling,
Rolling around,
Re-structuring,
Not in a good way or a bad way.

A lengthy poem has smaller hits
but the author can push through the gist
of inerrant musings of the soul
until he bleeds pus in the sole.

Never meant to cause any disturbance
unless my words bother you like flatulence.
to gain a thought is to make a mind queasy
albeit structuring words to poems is not that easy.

I FEEL PRETTY...OH SO...PRETTY!

I a...
...wake

covered in glorious glitter
smelling strongly of PVA glue

sticking to my cheek
very

hung
over

& covered in blueorange
yellowred feathers

a bubble
recently blown

perched upon
my nose

I...still....half coma...tose

tiny bubbles travel
amongst my curls

as through
a bigger bubble brightly

nestling neatly
over my right eye

I observe
my tiny daughter

purse her lips
& kiss

more bubbles
into being.

“Till...y! ”

I force my lips
(still frozen in sleep)

to some
how speak:

“What...you...do? ”

(even my syntax and sentence structuring is shot)

She smiles sweetly: “I’m
...pretty-ing you! ”

skoro tak, to powiem: sometimes i wish to unlearn the english tongue, it's not a case of questioning reality, it's a case of questioning the placebo of what would otherwise encapsulate you, my bilingual nature states i've learnt the language well enough to integrate and bypass assimilation, if only i could assimilate somewhere, but i've become a jew in my attempts; thankfully i'm not ready to start a family and a perpetuated question that seeks trans-generational answers from a kaleidoscope; i've learnt the nomadic way among civilisations rather than being nomadic among natural frontiers, which was already inherent in me, but civilisations came after the frontiers of seas and mountains... i've learnt to integrate but never assimilate, which is why i am doubtful to have found assimilation in only one place, whether god-given or whatever that might suggest... as a nomad i am not the one to build pyramids or temples, the constantly homeless ontological structuring of my being - as god constantly digressing from point of concern - i've tasted the nomadic, although the nomadic in an enclosure that's also israel; so crude the talents to come.

why are we, who have no inheritance
in the colonial past
to inherit the squabbles of former
colonial master and the colonised subjects?
who will speak of the smooth
transitions of the failed Soviet empire
into a bloodless Gorbachev lineage of
break-away states, who needed no nanny?
why are we, who recently learned the english
tongue exposed to these squabbles,
why are we in no-man's land camped
as if a Robinson Crusoe - indeed no man
is an island, and doubly indeed no nation
is a continent - why are we caught up
in the exchanges of the two firing squads -
the pawns in addition to the reliquary crowns
of queens in kindred to the Octobers upon Octobers
further east -
                       a queen a pauper among
the sainthood clergy of capitalism? what a profanity!
who cares for a pauper with idolised insignia -
who? the elocutionist? the rhapsodic rhetorician?
who then? a minded gap wide as a yawn
coupled to a warning that warned of the first step -
why am i cursed with this tongue learned,
why am i cursed with this tongue learned
and as my highest form of expression,
and why no Slavic first? i'm abhorrent with these days,
toward them doubly abhorred -
sure the escalators and other innovations -
tease and please the civilised world -
but learning this tongue is a burden on my soul,
while i see my fellow genetically composed twins
stand tall on construction sites as if Viking ships -
that i became a placebo impasse of originating
in these islands of lore chronologically asserting
a tie with Arthur and Lancelot -
but not me - *ultimatum extraneus,
i should not have allowed the foetus of the english
tongue to become incubated in me for a child to speak -
so eloquently some might add -
i sometimes wish i had no knowledge of either this
tongue, or my mother's, and knew a celestial
tongue where certain phonetics emerged once the
symbols were peered at long enough, as in runes
the V a shortening of woo - and left there,
to no care for applauding a successful institutionalisation
of the teenager for the time being,
before all became a Jenga pyramid game.

I FEEL PRETTY...OH SO...PRETTY!

I a...
...wake

covered in glorious glitter
smelling strongly of PVA glue

sticking to my cheek
very

hung
over

& covered in blueorange
yellowred feathers

a bubble
recently blown

perched upon
my nose

I...still....half coma...tose

tiny bubbles travel
amongst my curls

as through
a bigger bubble brightly

nestling neatly
over my right eye

I observe
my tiny daughter

purse her lips
& kiss

more bubbles
into being.

“Till...y! ”

I force my lips
(still frozen in sleep)

to some
how speak:

“What...you...do? ”

(even my syntax and sentence structuring is shot)

She smiles sweetly: “I’m
...pretty-ing you! ”

Ocean...
Deep and unexplored to the fullest...
Your that racket in my head I can't get out, foolish...
We mess around, wishing we could make *** a reality...
But In reality, the realness of our vibe turns fable into fact...
In fact, it's only your ocean that keeps me in tact...
Rhyming words is easy, but structuring words about you is the most complex...
Things form in my mind I cannot explain...
Something like the deep dark monsters that ponder at the bottom...
Your coral reef cuts deep, I still choose to walk, even when love blisters my feet...
Ocean...
Repeat, repetitive times you tell me you love me...
Your waves of effort connect with my heart ever so electric...
Eel at the surface of the water, creep, creep, you watch as I make my way towards you...
Knowing I might fall on my face...
I continue the steps because I have faith you'll catch me...
With no glove, you still manage to protect me...
Raw as un-cooked gets, firing soul through each other's anatomy...
Head to your toe, I admire...
Ocean...the only thing that has me drowning...
Your the definition of my holes...
The same answer that filled them up

All we are is nothing but a blanket covering the world.
Nothing more than a piece of clothing covering its ******.
We are a split second in the handles of a clock;
the sole whim within the imagination of reality.
An sporadic ****** when riding what we so call life,
but it doesn't really last enough to take another ride.
Our skins are filled with nothing but pure lust
and our bones are only nothing more than dust.

We are a mere heartbeat within the world's heart.
The blink of an eye within the history of humanity.
We are one more pattern in a sequence that never ends.
The fading echo of the voices of society's insanity.
We are the vague flashback of a future we will never live.
A small particle of water in a falling raindrop.
The modifying adjective structuring a sentence of our story.
The rush to the eye of a single fallen teardrop.

What else are we but the literal meaning of nothing?
The same kind of nothing which ignorance finds in art.
We brought nothing to the world but our own life
and nothing but life we will be taking when we depart.
We were born and built out of nothing
and so nothing shall then be our ending;
Nothing, as flowers when they are withered;
Nothing else, shall we ever be considered.

it’s the old Schengen Theory in psychology,
casually utilise vowels as pronouns,
but then theorise ancient pronouns
as theory based non-vowels: the self (germanic / invading)
and the ego (latin / origins of still using a - z)...
then apply the ditto membrane concern for space,
which will provide you with all the time in the world
to go back from the practical into theoretical that’s
free from having empirical theory interacting with the empirical practice
known as the sedative of life: mistake: life: en route death: life: some
other mistake:
life: don’t know: life: maybe tomorrow: life: maybe never: life:
i wish: life: well at least my saturday is occupied with movies;
they did the trick of of theorising you wearing a suit and doing it
commando in the missing underwear by structuring
an impetus to pause with stating: i said
                                                            ­ äußern  sjalrf
                                                  ­           id scribo;
it’s still a contest... heavyweight champ rom apex jr.
is fighting alarik orca schrei - with the former fighting to get rid
of  ‘ from e, and the latter to attach : to u to make ü:
oddly enough the saracens in sicily were
slavs who wrote ę and ą... otherwise it's all geographically
adequate to push rome down from the top,
with the majority of accents coming above the a, b, c... zee...
although the western slavs were an oddity in that respect...
but then a part of my family is said to have been
hungarian or czech... with surnames like batuk and not
batóg... and the cousin of some cousin
marrying my great-grandfather's sister ending up
with the surname saracen... it's a shame i can't
join in the festivities of the 21st century humanity
because of jealousy that didn't mature to the extent
i wished it had... and the god that suddenly appeared
from the ashen tabernacle of the holocaust in the night:
antichrist to satan... guess what, milton was completely wrong...
i went in there to steal the blood of the messiah
signposted wine... and i came back with blackcurrant juice!
can you believe it?
satan to the antichrist: well thank **** that you didn't
choose the bread... i came back with the apple of eden
and it turned to ash... god knows what the bread of the
messiah would have turned into.
anti-buddha: hallucinogenic mushrooms...
                                (insert laughter among duck noises).

I've been getting too busy
Structuring words and doubts
Still counting my money while
Relationships burn out
Like cherries that flicker
Away with the wind and
I'm still not convinced
That this death is the end, but
I'm scared of the clock, look
Checking accounts on lock, been
Spending time on the lot, been
Pushing the good paper,
Hoping my flow doesn't rot
Like this body I'm caged in
Then you're gone like a thot that
You thought you could use when
Your bloods running hot and
Steam floats from the faucet
Wash your hands of the particles
But soaps a slippery ***** when
You forget where you came from.

Whos the man with the master plan
With a wand in his hand
Understand divisions stands
Over unison they be the devils son
Mad the blueprint on Jekyll Island
1910 fews years later
Catastrophe struck in
Feds was created birth date were initiated
Recorded on scriptures
See the picture
Cloned us and loaned us
As slaves to the corporate field
Cant make cuz my endz break
But say just wait
Great things will come if
You put in your mind state
But that **** dont work
Everyday hustling
Only to be left struggling
Times is juggling
Disaster structuring
Over our very lives
And the run to church for lies
When they all apart of the
The american pie
Keep you dumb down and head to the ground all around
You see satellites taking pictures
Of a false heaven
Nothing but projectors images
World is a hologram
And reality is an illusion
Tactics made for confusion
People arguing over
Whos wrong whos right
When the rich folks set the sight
Following man made institutions
I couldn't take it
So i let the pistols began shooting
Intellect lootin'
We in deep need of a substitution
Cuz this world aint my home
I wasnt born to pay bills s
And die
P
Lift my hands to the sky
And God will multiply?
But thats lie
Ya just caught in a spiritual tie
Emotions vs logic Americans so **** lethargic
Regarldess
If truth is in the front of the  battlefield
Most will run behind the lines of lie
And be a defense shield
Instead of using conscious mind
Free will????????

Leap to see where they bring you when you do exactly what everyone does
Go to see where the bronzed and shiny, the blonde and skinny, the buff and the beautiful, the catchy things sleep here, it's all about the trend and the he said this she said that magazines plastering a wallpaper of celebs and what's-hot on the interior walls structuring my mind
do they feed on your self confidence too?
They crush youth and make believe that caring will be the death of them, that a soul gets ripped free of it's shackles everytime something genuine and real happens, something naked and imperfect, something totally weird and not what you'd say is the norm, here now, won't you see me as I am? It's progressive to be a little bit different now?
What else do they say to you when you are breathless and sighing on the ground- we all see when things are wrong, but everyone here is so small when the big man wants their money and their cars and things, it's easier to have nothing but the stuff that is shoved down our throats has become something everyone needs.

When you look, almost everyone you see, if you catch them off guard has this look of longing and contemplation on their faces. Those who are looking for some kind of connection in this illusory world. What they're really craving is a connection to forces beyond this world, something that would put them at a higher and supposedly better place. Those who don't seem to crave this feeling of unity, are too distracted by an abundance of ill-hearted meaningless connections, that they choose to ignore the actual oneness they are craving. Their senses are the only ones being stimulated and their minds and souls/hearts are willfully neglected. This is a reaction brought upon by the successful structuring and manipulation of humans away from their original inner potential and focusing on the meaningless mundane in order to insure subordination. We will always be longing for something more, something bigger, somewhere or something we all used to be and call home. Yearning for nostalgia, yet never quite filling the void. We have to break free.

5TH Grade
The last day
A reporter asked
What have you to say
Of this final day
And I stated:
"We are the kings and queens
And next year we will be nothing"
And that was the last time
I learned something
Constructive
In the structuring
Of a school building

to be honest, you should have got to me when i was 21,
back in 2007,
i don't say this lightly, but i figure, these days,
the unbearable lightness of being is all i having going
for me - the silent waters merge with enough
tectonic force to forge canyons -
i didn't suddenly, spontaneously succumb to
madness, genetic idiocy wasn't passed down to me,
the only mental illness that you could have ascribed
me with was world war ii, the memory of seeing SS
men in black uniforms in my town of birth...
i'm not one of those people that slither into a leech pucker
**** on stereotypes, i loath the idea that
all of Eastern Europe is considered slave trade,
******* or construction workers...
but i'm neither here or there...
yes the Cartesian unit of i am when access creates
the aeroplane lag of sound compared to seeing a plane...
the **** is 20 miles behind,
                          these days
no one presupposes thought first, thought comes last,
and the ability to think as a pleasure akin
to golf is long lost... i used to possess the medium
with which i tantalised myself with a pauper's
idea of life: thinking... i actually loved it...
then the pain came, and i was forced into the macabre...
but hate is so exhausting, esp. when you see
no trial for retribution... i'm just scared i won't be
able to provide for my parents... when i go out on
my numerous periodical walks at night looking for *****
i'm sorta saying: well, if they won't care, i won't care either...
i'm about to do a Moses, i know where i can find
a fresh source of water... and i'll eat grass if it comes to it...
oddly enough the horse herbivores manage,
i'll manage too! i don't have any feminine company for
support... Frankenstein mode... go!
i'll become a ravenous creature who forgot the basic comforts...
and i'll relish this hope of having accomplished it...
either that or the liberation through death...
and let me tell you, consistency helps, when thinking
of death as in synonymous thinking about morality:
things gain a lucidity, a clarity that adds just simplicity
to the debate that you'd never have thought would be
appropriate to later see an opera in an overcrowded
place... i'm not writing this as a fetish of suicides,
i'm writing about the reality of: how when thinking about
death on a recurrent basis you simplify life...
or how you extract the essentials from life,
or how you treat life's nibble offerings as entire meals...
i'm in no position to want death,
                        i'm just in a position to feed off it...
as a toddler in a hospital i was bottle-fed
by a nurse who made the rubber ****** incision
a bit too big for me to almost choke to death
while being fed... i told you, i'm the intellectual
version of Rasputin... hence my unconscious
aversion to women... perpetuated... shame really...
lovely form... could have... wait a minute... why
are my ***** tickling with goosebumps as if i possess
feminine arousal? don't know...
and all the joy in the world concentrated
by possessing two *****...
                                             say that's cricket,
or football... whichever, the Coliseum lives on.
so like i said: blood sizzling on the brain,
being diagnosed as schizophrenic - again, a good metaphor
for being bilingual...
                                         they looked and they looked...
while i too was searching, good joke i've conjured:
what do you get when you invest in grammatically
categorising words when writing philosophy?
the (a) subconscious and the (b) unconscious -
i say... wait for the trans-generational Syrians!
they'll be a fun to watch... they'll be talking about someone
descending in Damascus with a two angel entourage
asking everyone to perform dodgy ******* positioning...
*******! on the carpets! Aladdin pronto! now!
well, the reason that philosophy books haven't
adjusted to utilising grammar means that grammatical
words are the equivalent of the subconscious,
the unconscious part comes from actually adhering
to trust, the trust the majority of people invest in when
structuring sentences... say the word noun
and up pops Aristotle and says proper names...
well nouns are actually names, seagull chestnut tree,
anatomy baritone megaton p - or p.i. or *** or he,
or 3.14 ha ha. but using grammatical words to basically
shove and recycle configurations is crucial...
but like i said, you should have reached me back in 2007,
when i was 21 and husband material...
i only drank on weekends (and not everyday),
i had a budding social life (now my very social active
is bound to a relationship with the merchants occupied with
selling liquid amber) -
i had my problems, sure, but i never expected
to be practising Christianity, given the equivalent of
Cain a life of forgotten ordeals...
              like i never expected to walk into a church,
hear singing, reality checking that i heard singing
with an iPod, so i did hear singing,
                            being alone in the church,
then, all of a sudden, random stars starter roving the
night skies... not Rottweiler comets, stars...
      all over the ******* place... sometimes
in     .                .    formation, usually just single stars,
once in a         .
                      .     .           formation...
hence my aversion to western society... oh right, i'm
the mad one? hallelujah!
                                             so back when i was 21
i could have had it... the established norm of a
respectable life of a roofer, or any kind of labourer,
and honest to god... i would  have loved it,
had my career in chemistry not taken off
to become a laboratory technician in a company or
a school... i wish i had that chance to live the simplest
of lives (which doesn't mean i'd like a second chance
of stabbing at it by reliving some fake identity thieving
form of reincarnation, if i lived in a country with
1 billion i might believe that lie...
given i live in desperate country, i'll give that idea a pass)...
but practising Christianity in its purest form
is ******* hard, i knew i shouldn't have cried
ALL THE WAY THROUGH that Mel Gibson film...
i did, the spoken Aramaic got to me... i swear to god
i cried the whole way through,
              you can travel to Essex, Romford and ask
if anyone remembers a teenager crying all the way through
the movie, given the fact that a few people joined in...
and using that as example, the plight of the
African-Americans? i don't get it... if they started speaking
about their plight in Swahili i might get it,
but they're just N.W.A. to me, and given that i don't
come from a post-colonial background, i simply don't get it,
oh sure, i'm using the language... but that's about it...
i use the English language like a telescope,
unlike Newton who designed the **** thing...
verily impersonal; as is the annoying fact... who in the world
invented this antagonist concept? last time i
checked there was no Antibuddha...
                                               buddy bud bud...
Sensimilia... poach the roaches... yep, jar of pickled mushrooms.
why the haphazard arrangement?
                                  i started loathing fruits since 2007,
can't eat them... resorted to only eating vegetables -
Yorkshire collie or prudish Scottish Lass?
                                          whichever,
reinventing onomatopoeia,
                                  recapturing the polymath idea of
sounds, and what sound would i get if i touched a
rainbow? Bob Marley reggae?              just asking...
  this is an idea in how to write an aversion but a new
version of the onomatopoeia....
                                it's a game that's predicated on
a hide & seek format,
                                  i might be shouting into a cave
for an echo,
                        i might be woodpecker knuckling a
knock on tree... the disguise of sounds comes with
the randomness of quick digressive changes...
          just an elaboration of what came about in
                 Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich... the sad part?
me, clarinet and being ****** into a solo heist of the heights.

Me, Myself, I!

Me,
I have no English Degree,
That's why my writes are scatty,
My grammar is appalling,
Tragically punctuation lacks,
Swallowed a dictionary,
Ate it for me tea,
Thesaurus is the baby,
Cos getting my words in context bothers me,
Still I love to write,
Sometimes morning noon and night,
My structuring of poetry,
Leaves tons to be desired,
Still I find my poetry keeps my heart on fire!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)