I just want to ask one question
Is the human race obeying the mathematical rule called BODMAS?
Just a refresher...  
Brackets, Orders, Division, Multiplication, Addition and Subtraction

We have created different brackets
where we enclose people like casket
He's black, she's white, they are rich,
those are poor, she's educated, he's religious, he's fat, she's slim... Brackets

People are treated differently
Based on the class that we've put them in
Some are raised to power like exponents
Others are trapped in like square roots...Orders

The segregation has only intensified our division
I don't fit in here, I belong over there
My group is stronger, those ones are losers... Division

Disunity and absence of love has caused
A multiplication of our problems
Threats, deportation, persecution
We don't like them, we'll bomb them
War, insurgency, terrorism, hate speech... Just problems Multiplication

Every second, our population is experiencing several additions
Our population keeps growing while
Our natural resources are being exploited
And depleting at a rate faster than our population growth
Our resources are experiencing severe subtractions

I just want to ask one more time...
Aren't we obeying BODMAS?

Some days i feel pretty, some days i feel eighty,
Right or wrong i must go on,
Believing there is a meaning behind
this chaos called life,
And that here i do belong...

She says that I'm overthinking small
situations and turning them into complex
equations, a mountain of igniting dungeons
beyond infinities, a labyrinth of swelling
light flickering without energy.

I gaze at the unfiltered alliteration in her
one-dimensional shape, the split derivatives
diverging towards a square of stained
subtractions.

My mind is the light source that transcends
destiny, a wall of mirrored depictions
aligning with my soul.  I am a critical thinker,
and I shall live in this realm forever.

On this day,
Twenty-eight years ago,
I realized that love is not divided...
Not halved between.
A father's love for his children...
Is a multiplication,
An expansion.

How do I explain?

Meanings of life change;
Additions and subtractions aside,
Love multiplies...matures:
Exult or suffer, it endures
Even the agony of division.

Mainly now, love suffers,
But always it endures.

The obsession
takes possession
of my thoughts.

Every waking hour
intent on feeding
Said addiction,

Wasting a wonderful
day’s worth of potential
on pleasures and rewards
that are digital abstractions,

Becoming subtractions
from the quality of my mind,
and my life.

Crossroad horizon colored purple blue and burned
Sister sadie purrs as the register drawer rings
And the horses all gallop and dash entrancing the sun.

A naked flower forms meteors in metered time.
When I was nineteen I lost every single fear.
Tear away the fabric, rip away the sheets, open up the signs;
There just ain't enough time in this world to be unkind.

Understand thy fellow brother.
See their shining God as ye' see yours.
Another night away from her
Is like being shot down double musket undeserved.

A lonesome river runs through the mountains gate.
A man who believes in himself understands that fate
Is neither fair or generous, only a state
That cannot be meddled with or stripped to debate.

Golden fawn springs from the bush to the forefront.
Twilight salutes in a dutiful stunt.
When I don't love, I don't live.
And when I don't live, I don't deserve to be.

Crystal bells, silver whistles and jade scorpions
They hang like a gang from my rooftop.
Apricot juice, dandelion wine, and attic finds
Are all a child's dreams until they stop.

Day here, day gone.

She complains about life, as
I wonder about the knife
Which Macbeth did hold,
Flashy like a maroon marigold.
Was it silver or was it a copper mold?
There are some secrets in this world
That should never be told.

Brown sister holds her books tight to her chest.
Her brother has been lost to some kind of quest.
The yellow ball sits on the edge of the corner pocket.
She grips in her hand an old rusty locket.

Near the Richmond train and the Sacramento river
Sits a dead man with eyes spilt into a frown.
His wife left him one morning to marry his brother John,
And he sits, waiting there for his soul to come along.

Abandoned love's color is that of a charcoal dove.
The bones of the pure cannot be broken or charred.
Blanket of stars partake in the ceremony of the monkeys.
I see the shaman and he's dressed as if he aims to be wed.

Oil on the streets. There's oil on my hands.
There's oil everywhere around us, but in the land.
Can't see through these eyes of mine anymore.
Can't breathe through this mouth or nose of mine neither.
Somethings telling me I've got to change my point of view,
Though where to start, I haven't a clue.

I like this place.
I like what I can do.
But some days,
I just feel cruel and I
Act like a drunken fool.

There's a place I can smell in my dreams, in my sleep, when I feel what we truly have.
And when it goes away, the only thing I can manage to feel is 6 feet down low and sad.
Let's get out of this place as soon as we can. I'll pack the bags and you pack the animals.
Out on the islands, away from all of man, we'll live by the eastern wind unplanned.

Clock strikes the fortieth page of the hundredth book of the eighth king.
The day man truly dies is when he forgets how to sing.
I cannot elope my mind to the calculations of times subtractions of the body.
Either everyone comes,

Or nobody.

Path trended and passed
In silence they weep and act
Aisle after aisle a memory sung
Trespassed as eventful melody

Spears of death sink inwards
Body trembles as it fades away
A belong to the bare soiled ground
As the whispers of the wind evaporate

I lost my shoes, my clothes all torn
Blended in moulded formed horns
Knees crashed on the pebbles
I recite my said and unsaid repentance

The bricks, blocks and boxes boast
Rising above the past I long lost
As the heat rise, they make passion
A traction, the subtractions,a surmise

The sunrise once bright disappears
The lens clogged in blurry vision
A bird within flutters and mutters
Drifty as the phone once held slide

Out of reach, out of touch, outer tours
Over sensed danger, the blackened day
Liberated in clear skies,unclouded reforms
The pounded bells echoes lullabies of calm

There is a multiplier deep inside
an identifier that confides in me
and divides,I see
by the actions of gene therapy.

It analyses,criticises,alters and devises new ways of splitting out my days into a hundred thousand newer kind of ways to break my heart.

Adding to the adding of, subtractions minus then because I age
it vents its rage and goes quite mad the copies that it makes are bad,not up to standard,randomly it sequences,imitations of my DNA.
and in these clones of which it does not seem to care,
I am somewhere falsified
in there
more imitations,creating limitations in which I find that I am locked.

These pistols of my life were loaded,cocked before I was born
and cannot be torn from me by hocus pocus or intervention surgery.

There will be,
me and me and me and me forever copied I will be that which I'm not,
another dot
Spot the differences?
I can
as I turn into a copy of a copy of a man.

My nostrils stay cold in the warm weather, cold in the rain, a forever remnant of the days of ******* and truck beds. I inhale and exhale the poison of cigarettes, but the shotgun electricity of the little white lines pierces the folds of memory. As much as I ache to forget, I can still feel the powder laying latent underneath my fingernails.

The days of wanting stress are replaced by wanting to alleviate it. I'd rather not sit and listen to your scratching your tense fingertip-tapping jitters. Silent leg shaking bouncing making my records skip. The dust-covered dumpster-dived needle has stress enough without your additions, subtractions, multiplications. You sneeze white and red, the signs of frustrated futures and presents. The record skips back to one, water stained, nothing changes.

I once played without direction and felt it cheap and unnecessary, like angels that breathe deeply underwater. Grasping for sympathy and votes of confidence. Forging intimate connections without it, needing wanting grabbing feebly into the air. Desperation never even gets a chance. We are strong as equals, love dissipating into the aether, waiting watching wandering wishing waking.

I tried to bend and not break, divide and not conquer. I tripped on the wire, skinned knees, forgetting. The clouds of gray hang low low in the air. I will hold strong to my promises, even in this time of turmoil and smashed faces. My foot will stay planted. I will move forward. I will keep on keep on keep on.

Even when they doubt me, I will keep on.

Is the edge of the cliff
the time of your death?
Or the realities sudden wiff
of: "this is not your final breath".

Are the falling skies
tumbling over your head?
Or your happy moments in disguise,
from the tragic ending in red.

The conception of lives subtractions and additions
is the everlasting question to find lives prohobitions

Fear and infractions,
Basic senses,
Subtle subtractions,
Delayed response,
Relayed reactions,
Play off the hint,
Winter hue,
Malice tint,
Hateless tasteless,
Faceless placeless,
Placed placement,
Playful payment,
Frivolous and fevered,
Tempered beliefs,
Believers,
Belay the bounty,
Beautiful and temptress trite,
Fracturing county,
Past tense recite,
Fast forward rewrite,
Rewound and respun,
Locked and lead loaded,
Geared and gunned,
Sudden and semi-accidental implosion,
Rewarming,
Sickly hex,
Weakened flex,
Internally overcasted and overtly storming,
Outwardly warning,
Slowly learning,
Forever turning,
And in turn,
Burnt and still laid burning,
Waking a ghostly turning,
Soundlessly and -ly burning,
Smokey on the peripheral,
Ethereal,
Eternally external,
Forcefully feared,
Into inferno,
Out of opinionated opressionables,
Que wide and willingly willed questionables,
Wordlessly whispers with the whim of the wind,
Beget blindness,
Begets mindless,
Begets beauty bound by which beauty begins,
Found fearfully,
Torn tearfully,
Retold beautifully,
Molded after mourning,
Mourned before morning,
Night neared,
Sadness teared,
Tearing soundly on edges,
Destruction and dutiful pirouette,
Tasted tyranny teem and endance pledge,
Irony stills,
And the air dare not forget.

I am ever so simply a woman and so I liquify from the waist down and on the eve of a disastrous morning, I use the tips of your your lips as marmalade and marinade within the notion of you. If I was to ever go mad, it'd surely be based on the mere idea that you once knew me as certain as you knew the difference between a prism and a square, just additions and subtractions of necessary and unnecessary lines.

On my first day as a tutor (a sad tale for tutors)
Said the boy, sir, your face looks like a horse
Shocked beyond words by the slapping commentary
I said how it matters boy show your book of history!

History, oh no, that’s a subject I abhor
It hasn’t anything that needs a tutor
The kings and queens and years of wars
Got no charm for me all the unending curse!

My hands itched hard to pull out his hair
Just a kid I said and it won’t be fair
I must put up with all the nonsense
Mend him and get my reward for patience!

Don’t talk like that boy bring your English book
How far you’ve progressed let me have a look
English, it’s so easy I can learn by myself
It’s one subject I need no tutor’s help!

It’s time I thought to use my last card of trump
Bring boy your copy of subtractions and sums
Surely you need there someone to guide you
He kept quiet and my hopes soared anew!

Maths, that’s truly something from you I need to learn
If you offer to teach me there’s no way I can spurn
But before we proceed his chuckles he could hardly hide
Do crawl on all fours to be the horse I love to ride!

A thousand bees stung me a million sparks flew
I knew my time was up wasn’t anything more to do
I wished to give his head the hardest hammer’*****
Just a kid I had to swallow made a hasty retreat!

The majority consensus is,
We are average.
Eyes behold beauty in tabloids,
But the Elephant Man was on the screen,
The exception.
We are not ugly or stunning,
Spending paper dreams on blemishes
That are all too human.
We are the common denominator
With assets and detractions,
Additions and subtractions,
Sharing invisible property lines,
Crossing borders, unnoticed.
On the scale, Einstein was above average,
With a handful of others.
We can read, that's what the average needs.
If Darwin is correct,
We'll all end up on the cover of The Enquirer.
In the meantime,
I'm comfortable with average.

Average health is above average,
Anything less is unacceptable,
Like living without an epiglottis,
Yet doable.
We spend less than we earn,
Yet the average person wins the lottery,
Then blows it all.
Isn't that true, Joe? Jane?
We're in the middle class.

I want to bandage the pain they cause while slicing your veins. Bleeding you dry while you're shackled and chained. Catch your thoughts in a bucket while they're draining your brain. Folding contorting and bending until you're considered the same. Making you in their image to deem you sane. You can be yourself now that you've changed. It's okay.
But It's not okay. I want to give you back the intelligence they stole. Make you remember what it's like to be whole. Reshape your body to it's original mold. It wasn't your heart, but the world that's cold. They're so sure they're right because it's what they were told. They never bothered to hear the sound in their soul.
The definition of wrong and right has been simplified to black and white. The shades in between cast out of the light. The in between truths got lost in the fight.
But you're beautiful. Not the addition, subtractions, division, and multiplication.. The original creation. You're incredible. The left over lacerations are minor additions to the very foundations that made you a miracle. So wear your scars with pride with me. Show the world how we came to be free. If it's worth it it'll never be easy. Freedom always came with a fee but when your soul is meant to sing there's no option but to fight to be.
Just be. Who you are is not a mistake, It's they who are mistaken. Regardless of your beliefs, you're the epitome of a heaven. Wear your skin with pride, stay humble and forgiving. It's the simplest of truths that get lost in our living.

Old blue jeans
haven’t faded yet,
still unblurred
as he moves
undeterred
by a painful past;

Slightly slumping,
shoulders sagging
like a soldier
who is dragging
his body back
from an unknown war.

Well earned
wrinkles on his face
are deeply ingrained
as deep blue eyes
shield a soft soul
from feeling
to cold.

Brown spotted skin,
but his hair is still black,
the pain is still there
in the past
as a matter
of facts
that others lack.

It is all superficial.
People can’t even see
the surface scars
that he hides
behind his sleeves.
Desert dry eyes
can no longer
sooth a parched heart.

Outside
of our ability
to perceive
is his grief,
strange subtractions
from his life
like his parents,
his friends,
and his wife,

All we can see
is a solitary
sad stranger.

Tonight I looked into
An overdue doubt
Of mythic proportions
So come check it out

Of this federal system
Reserving its heist
For the terrified hostages'
Crisis zeitgeist

These zodiac killers
Who keep turning pages
In all of these doctrines
Is one for the ages

Immaculate in
It's deception conceptions
Omnipotent forces
Controlling elections

And rigging the game
For the bishops and crooks
To build their empires
On stacks of these books

Which sell like hot cakes  
They claimed were the towers
Of ivory patriots
Sharing their powers

When really the lies
Are as old as the story
Enslaving the masses
Since gold, god, and glory

First hungered for many
A few white horse christians
Waging their wars
Through apocalypse fictions

Then spreading the plagues
With addictive distractions
Dividing the factions
With taxing subtractions

And billing our rights
Constituting their claim
Must govern the people
In image and name

In his kingdom of fear
No home for the brave
When freedom is buried
In salvation's grave

Dug for the masses
And martyr's who bled
From the hole fatal truth
In the back of their head

We sculpted this nation.
We pulled the burning shreds
from what was left after.
After we discovered what there was.
What there was for us.
Our future.

We sculpted these states,
these laws,
these rights,
this nation.

We sculpt ourselves,
but why?
We sculpted our images,
our egos,
our words,
our hopes,
our dreams.
We sculpted ourselves.

But we have already been sculpted.
We need no additions,
no subtractions,
no edits,
no remodels.

We are we.
Humans
People
Beings.
We are we.
However sculpted we may be,
we are we.

what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference?


                                                ­  ~~<>~~
he reads certain words,^ then

the poet uncovered, stumbles upon, a rhythmic bearing, provoked,
his own bearing now  lost in contemplation, exits the cottage, wandering on the always wet grass, observed by animal menagerie,
espy him watchfully, a human directionless wanderer wondering, asking himself the meaning of it all, knowing answers reserved not him

we celebrate subtlety, process the minutiae of extracting an exactitude of  the precious précis of each momentary why, only when he honest confesses his ineptitude, can he truly begin to pluck words from the airy atmosphere to assemble them in format that mines the great difference in everything, the differential veins

the creatures, unshy, wish to contribute, suggesting editions, subtractions, this turn, this twist, this nuance, always clarifying, valuing utility beauteous, making the meaning perfectly clear in ways that make you gasp at words, their powerful, to define, then refine, then just plain be, be fine, finding, exploiting, drawing freehand the lines of distinction exacting
this great differences
                                                  ~­~<>~~
^
“and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great differences?”

His how long and your how long have you got depends not on how long you've been or on how many places you've seen, but on the microseconds you've counted in the midst of a dream and have they counted at all?

If that is truly the case then dreams must be the place where life is measured

I add up the subtractions which make the distractions of each day more bearable,
it's still one big carnival with plenty of clowns but no wild animals because now they're protected as we all should be.

And in saying 'no wild animals' I have excluded the audience who pretend to be civilised until the lights go down.

When on the Northern line travelling light and the weather is fine
one has a gay old time
( don't even go there)

It's Saturday and I'm away to meet family
a subdivision of ancestry but still humanity.

Nearly at Euston so better I put my skates on to rise on the escalator, a quick coffee to celebrate their arrival.

This poetry comes to you from me via several stations on the London tube network
I'd like to thank the interchange at the 'Bank'
and also the man who spilled coffee on my shoes.

i got the feeling i am coming back to what i am really meant to do
which is...FEEL the way i live and to pursue
my dreams i have already dreamed of, i feel its nothing new
my god is telling me to wake up and i am ready to open to my reality
romances my life to a complete false character is dull
i would rather be the human that feels all the emotions of rules
i am human i make mistakes,but, it seems some expect more out of me than what i give.
As if it isn't enough reaction. as if my bad days don't matter to the action
this movie i dreamed of..left out the sad attractions it comes with.
i breathe it all in. i take it with a grain of salt. I am not perfect.
But, my heavenly father tells me i am just perfect the way i am.
And if some can't accept my thoughts subtractions..than maybe i should move forward to the ones that feel the same satisfaction.
sometimes the good things want to end.. because in other places there things that need my attention.
May it be good or bad, there is always a balance in my smile that has some fractions.
i repeat i am not perfect in my attractions. Though God loves me for who i am. In all sinful actions.
I am moving forward with my divine guiders of peace and love within my past jacked sense.
I will no longer allow the feeling of disappointment in my mind that tracts and miss.
I am figuring out my love for my back to gained prints.


-becauseilovehim.

pin points
joined like Siamese
dots, exclusion
of the hyphen for
the use of pause.

it's one of those early nights having an introspective
moment... trying to give dimensions to my oeuvre:
all those heartbreaks of spaghetti fingers typing
and then trying to ctrl + c / ctrl + p / ctrl + a
but missing the keys... hey presto! a magic act:
a poem lost not even saved by automaated drafts...

yes... i do feel like i need to buy Red Hot Chilli Pepper's
Unlimited Love on vinyl...
it's funny how artists, even in the mainstream disappear...
i have no account of the existence
of the band from... circa 2007... until 2022 when
they toured and i was working the London Stadium:
poet of the coliseum...
John Frusciante came back: i never thought he went
anywhere... but even major artists disappear...

unlike those days being a greedy and eager youth
trying to impress girls with an array of influences
finding out: no return to jazz no return to classical music
to figure out finding my own voice (i wish,
there was a rhyme, vice... ice...) - parrot?
    imitating echo? if parrots could imitate echoes...

it's a gruelling evening...
   there's absolutely nothing to write about...
i'mm rereading some of Al Purdy and Walt Whitman
and i feel: feelz... detachment from any stated,
historical achievements...
          wars lost wars won or whatever
that might be between the flesh and the fingernails
when the fingernails grow too long...
an interlude from working shifts... dealing with people
is a ******: a flat tire...
   37 is no age to start thinking about a road
already undertaken:
children? no?! marriage? now?!
     flipping pancakes and idealising love furthest from
love's truth...
   murky waters and swamp-things...
      deceits, subtractions and additions of lies...
headaches, toothaches...

            shares happiness of coupling and shared
demises...
but from what i've learned:
there is no happiness greater than a one arrived
at by oneself: that spontaneity of laughing
for no reason or laughing at oneself
having thought a certain thought...
and no sweeter misery that no one can share
with you... a nostalgic grey morose murmur of...
some self- prefix fixation of this automated
monkey-bot turned 180 degree standing upright...

the last days of autumn... rotten leaves
in the park that are as "dangerous" as ice...
and a winter that only takes a sneak-peek
at where it once was: magnificently as an AGE of ice
parallels of trunks and trombones and
imagining hairy elephants...
   just imagining.... not really paying attention
to the fact that: yes... how long would it take
for an elephant to grow fur and would it have migrated
with man... all furry in sunny Africa...
kind of inverting the point of the elephant in Siberia
with man shedding fur for... bare-goose-bump skin...

this plughole, this constipation of history through
the lens of Darwinism is... like...
standing above a grave of a dearly loved one
yawning, or chewing gum...
               something like an Icarus-Phoenix
burning in the mind that dead yet dead not forgotten...
fickle creature memory and what
i don't want to remember:
with what i do remember -
   like that repetitive loop of memory-erosion
beginning with the philosophy of pedagogy...
raise hopes and teach pointless arts...
but dear, dear... don't teach them how to combat
the drudgery of work and menial toils...
i'm pretty sure that most physical labours
that require a technicality of an array of skills
will never be menial...
it's the shelf-stacking jobs that could be
made easier... in theory... with an entertaining mind...
a wandering here one minute gone the next...
a disappearing ego...  reappearing ego...
a bucket and pulled from a bucket a top hat...
and from a top hat? pulling out an old person's
chattering dentures instead of a white bunny...

a beautiful life focusing on little things,
finding spontaneous wisdom anecdotes and not defending
such roles as guru or saviour or leader...
like... going to bed before 12am and
like today... nonchalantly in concord with:
i'd like to have a lesbian girlfriend...
while sneaking away to the brothel...
but even no, given the wintry months:
having a relief from spring's and insect' libido....
sure... jerking off but not really thinking about
it, which is aided by sitting on the throne
of throne and giving birth to a meteor of
plucked brown-stuff and almost rising ot *******
heights of that one gateway not being
violated by ******* passions....

tired of experimenting of breaking society's
boundaries and leftover taboos...
just ****** tired... as if wanting something
wholesome like a slice of rye bread
or porridge in the morning...
    perfectly boring perfectly sighed over...
and a world that's only as big as my eyes can see...
sure... a mountain in the distance...
or a sky-scraper... this grand plateau of London...
no car, no need... just a bicycle and a pair
of legs... a lost commitment from having
a grandmother... made all the more easier
by the fact that: i will die without an image
of my father's mother...
               making it easier for me to digest
the ongoing process of being estranged from
my mother's mother...
               i have the perfect excuse these days:
i'm working... obviously not the work
of aligning with plastic surgeons of bus drivers...
work the liberator and excuse from...
i used to love seeing my mother's parents...
i'd visit them for stretches of months...
sit with the old people and soak up:
fermenting and almost sad that my youth was
wasted on old age... but the books i read
and the training i received from "missing out"
made me a rigid-stone...
from the youthful energy of disappointment
to the slowly growing old dynamic of
oriental thinking...
even now if i will ever put a foot in Poland
i will only be doing so
on a whim of: i need to purchase cheap duty-free
cigarettes... i'll fly over and spend
a day in Cracow... try to look local...
******* back to the airport, buy three cartons...
spend £30 there and back and spend a total
of £90 on 600 cigarettes...
which will still come cheaper than if i bought
cigarettes here legally, stupid...
or under the counter from some Romanians...

i was supposed to go to the gym with Francesca
today... honestly... i was busy... busy being
busy about not being busy...
spent the night chatting to a friend from Hawaii...
she texted me that she was going on a date...
that's what i mean:
i'd like a lesbian girlfriend... someone i could go
ice-skating with... talk macho ******* with...
go to an art-gallery...
but: keeping up with Platonic traditions...
if in need of **** find it elsewhere...
with the likes of Mona...
who, apparently disgraced, was shunned by fellow
prostitutes for becoming pregnant with
a customer... that's the thing...
i hope it wasn't me... but chances are...
cross-eyed at the zenith of her ******...
lips touches lips and all the wonderful stuff that's
like sunlight having descended and
enveloped a field of wheat in August...

i don't mind... carefree mitigation of rumours
and the frenzies of atomic vibrations...
invisible yet existent parodies of impasses
of: how Hannibal solved the issue of the Alps...
how Lawrence created the endless number of clocks
from the sands of Arabia...
how the sea was a puddle for the first to not thirst...
such evenings when language is loose...
gooey... mindless bragging and jargon...
something person spotted from time to time...

with my mother's brother, my uncle:
i once adored him... i used to go to concerts with him...
that one afternoon he cleaned and worked on
his Porsche... we listened to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
Californication... an interlude of going
to the chicken shop and getting some chips
and hot wings...
his personal life of sleeping with prostitutes...
multiple girlfriends... i admired that i wanted
that for myself rather than the odd... mutant...
rigour of my father's monogamy...
i tried it once: twice...

i'm so thankful for the women in my life,
i won't event pretend to not give them their names:
Isabella, she dumped me...
Promis... she dumped me...
Ilona... she too dumped me...
dumped Humpty-Dumpty...
which gives me the focus of Pontius Pilate...
each time i wash my hands i wash imaginary
hands of Pontius Pilate...
   it's so much easier than to fall in the category
of the sort of man that has the luxury of clinging women
he then dumps...
much easier to be dumped...
it reveals avenues of... perhaps Mona, that *******,
really did have the best *** in her life
and wanted my genes to be preserved...
no one knows expect for her
and the insinuations other prostitutes in the brothel
have dropped...
but i won't be revisiting that place for some time...
my libido is stale-bread and...
eh... a ******* for an hour telling someone:
slow down... slow down...
                      just a little tenderness...
i don't need to be circumcised twice!

             unlike the ***** where you can ferociously
gorge on the uncircumcised bits...
or when interacting with piston against the backdrop
of the floral patterns: we're talking an act
with possible teeth involved...
my love made all the more easier:
so easier to move on... being the one being dumped...

western dogma: wisdom as an over-complication
with eastern dogma: wisdom as an over-simplification...
traps and mazes of the latter...
dogs chasing their own tails...
perhaps? reimagining the once legal
aesthetic of improving the Dobbermann dog breed
by snipping the nails and clipping the ears
so they might be pointy?

back to "dearest" uncle... he's back living in Poland
with his mother nearing her 85th year...
apparently going back... friends with investment
potentials... 3 weeks there and all he's doing
is sitting in the living room in his boxer shorts...
watching t.v., trying to play the role of manager
of a non-existent company...
having sold his one greatest asset of a paid-off
mortgage of a house...
his dream: retiring in his mid-50s like the norm
in Greece... a man still in his prime
having lost it...
                         hardly me cooking and improving
the life of grandparents by painting shelves...
changing the linoleum flooring in the kitchen...
changing a light-bulb...
it's like that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
the decadent police officer being dragged back
into his childhood bedroom...
this Hell of the Western World's Mentality...
living with your parents like it's a wheelchair hindering...
what?! and paying 12 months upfront
to rent a box in London is somehow better
than the allowances of homelessness?!
hardly... **** me... hardly!

sure... when he was living in England
and had the advantage of bilingualism...
how his "friends" dragged him into a ****-show:
circus without the clowns storming
a FIAT 126P by the 20 load of cramming...
now my horror-suspicion can be shared....
but at least i had escapism within the confines
of books... and no, seriously no ambitions
to stand on a stage and dance...
poetry and mediating mediocre saved me...
i allowed myself: i was allowed
sieving through observing people:
pedestrian talk: no talk...
            
     loads of money: he did save up a load of money:
compared to the usual dynamic he's
hardly a millionaire...
but compared to me... i count my riches
by the time i spent reading a book...
reading Heidegger's Being & Time...
hell... i paid... no... i didn't... my grandfather
paid 20? let's be realistic... he paid 30zł for each book...
in a subscription "race":
one book per 30zł... 20 books in total...
anyway... i was a vagabond in Heidegger's head
for 30zł that spanned for almost 3 years...
a difficult book...

                          i'd spend less time in Sartre's antithesis
of Time: id est esse nihil                                    -ness
does it really matter? the number on the receiving
end... is the calculated progress of judgement
of what constitutes "progress"...
Welsh is always a second clue concerning Britain...
given: you will hardly hear or learn
how the Scots "forgot" their origin in tongue
so smoothly lost that it would require a James
to bend the knee and crack his knees
like walnuts to arrive at these isles unity... ****-wit...
it's a pointless sort of defeat...
but adamant Welshmen and their prosthetic hard-on
for myths of: origins of the dragon folk...
hardly passable: most impressionable...

right now, though! i figured out something!
i don't want to write something original!
i don't!
you: "you": you... you know what i want
to achieve?! i want too write something
that... that can't be plagiarised!
which is a take on originality as
anti-originality-original

suppose these "poems" leave indentations in the fabric
of time (solely, they already have,
in the room i'm currently sitting in,
listening to R.E.M.'s automatic for the people
for the Nth time, nothing has changed)...
wow... my ego-tripping pays off...
but what tripping with no ego? just a silence
of the mind? the only reason why i'm writing
it because i can't return to my prior to psychosis
state of the thought-narrative bliss of
semi-solipsism semi-object-thinking...
one LEGO project after another...

i'm sitting here hunched before QWERTY looking
at the screen not looking at the keyboard
because: mastering QWERTY is oh so much different
to ice-skating...
life this self-suggesting, doubly-affirming:
believe me you be...
          are... conjugating the perfected grammar-math...
perhaps the wrongly assembled: you're be...
makes no more sense than
a chicken clucking trying to imitate
the screech of a diving hawk...

a lion growling a cat meowing...
             green met yellow and how blue was spawned...
if the blues was all blue
then i guess jazz was: having the purples...
classical music was the savvy pinpoint
between silver - gold - platinum...
but i still preferred folk songs...
the sort of songs without genius and more
the spontaneity of drunkards...

we heave an unbearable load of nostalgia:
nostalgia being a fakery of memory
and memory being no better than imagining
a present and future... with the downfall:
a memory reimagining the present and past...
if thinking is stability: if!
posit if within the confines of "if"!
then imagination is pyrotechnics...
the same can be said of memory...
fickle creatures... self-appropriating
self-gratifying no-self-involved students of
a circus...

i conjure up a memory: i'm re-imagining
what ought to be re-remembered...
no can do... i think of something outside
the prism-prison of geometry of a square:
that becomes the Disney Mouse...
wow!
     imagination and memory conflate
and thought: knows all the best distractions...
existence per se and for no knowledge
of the usual vectors of demand: how, when, who, why,
north? how...
east? when...
south? who...
west? why...
                         this is my globe of words making sense:
by sense i imply: words i own: i can manifest
within the confines of constructing a loss-of-self-self...

some spineless messages from Vietnam like
i'm speaking, writing, English, ergo i'm American...
it might only take a few Pakistanis selling Qurans
to conflates ****** with a German...
doesn't matter to me...
does it? did it? will it? ha ha...
     well... a ****** in England not pretending...
tangy-****-****... drool of accent of America...
talking to someone from Vietnam trying to start
up a brothel with girls to "sell"... shady corners of the world...
a bit like not trying to be Russian and talking to
someone from Afghanistan...

bored citadels with barricaded Cinderellas
***** me a snake and wishing ****** dress: white...
promises... me and you and me not getting any
STDs?!
                vampires,  in literature... at the height
of the AIDS epidemic... epidemic: in through to out...
pandemic: out through to in...
     d'uh... you ******* brain-frozen buzzing itches
of intellect not worth salvaging...
i'm tired! i'm tired of mediocre and the excuses leftover
by western psychologists...
i wasn't handed the kind poker hand...
i had to struggle... i struggled...
considered mad i waited until the world
caught up to me supposed "madness":
the world turned out madder than my originally prescribed
madness...
who's celebrating now? no one...
i'm curious about the demands of the gods...
i'm in pivot: contemplating both the crucified
and the one to be impaled on a spike...
my god... could celebrating torture be so misunderstood?!
crucifying someone is half the torture...
but impaling someone... celebrating
an anti-homosexuality... mein gott!
that's the focus: in situ of gravity, glue,
moon, money, sun, honey... being crucified is rather tame
compared to being impaled with your hands
being tied behind your back!
tame... this... thingy-magic... torture emblem of
excuses... solipsistic nostalgia some mediocre people
had it well... **** them... trample them...
horses need to learn to own hoofs!
no point of learning without some crushing
of skulls-soulless;

bemoan what fact? i might... somehow... endear myself
and enrich my existence with / by listening
to these harrowing calming-pill narratives of:
and who isn't who without anything being lost?!
oh! the hierarchy of victim-culture:
blaming X for Y and Y for Z...
fat ***** best fatten herself up by grief growing like
mould: slow...
  
of course i'm readying myself for the death-hanging...
the death-looming... the death-apparent...
tick-tock... tick-tock...
it would be impossible to thoroughly move with
a life, a concern for it, "it":
having a blasé affair with: exactly, with what that's not "that"?
pin point a needle in a haystack...
see a camel a mile away from passing
through a needle's eye...

old teachings are like ancient ruins...
people are not willing... the ontological reality
outside of the realm of Darwinism is unavailable...
there is no Darwinism to explain why
there were furless elephants in Africa:
and still are...
while there were furry elephants of Siberia
and Northern Europe....
eh?! explains X x what?!
            the English tongue is poison with its
dramatic Darwinism make-over speed up: ****
history: does anyone care to remember yesterday?!
if poetry is such a ******* **** in the realm
of arts... what's journalism?
historically speaking: it's...  A *******
CONSTIPATION!

you "people" are constipated meta-profession
ortho-beings... paraphrasing: eh?! who?!
no lost of libido... if at least half of us turned
to the path of patchwork of Cain...
we might... get something done...

Obviously I was never part of the plan
Show up attention demand
Whether you notice
Or not
That’s what I am
If I’m thinking favorably
That you would even notice me
Much less like what you see
Who knows how true it could be?
Subtractions from additionally
Connections telescopically
Tunnel visions unreasonably
Bordering on crazily
Maybe