it is exactly one month before my seventeenth birthday and I am standing in the road under dim streetlights that remind me of the candles that glow from the windows in the winter.

your silhouette beckons me from across the way and I drift towards it, executing each step slowly like a surgeon, although there's no need for silence anymore. it is 2:05 in the morning and I have left my house in the dead of night. I slip into the car and the welcoming aroma of menthol cigarettes and dr pepper engulfs me and I smile for the first time in a while. I am not afraid. I am not sad. I am home.

this right here is the part many will never understand. home is not made of four brick walls and a sturdy tin roof. it is not a fireplace or picture frames or a warm bed. home is where you feel like you belong. it is where you are loved. cared for. needed. this is my calling and I've reached out to answer it. this is the family I never had.

three hours in a messy car does not grind down my spirits of this little vacation I've begun. I have smoked half a pack and kissed you much less than id like to, but your presence brings the greatest peace of mind.

upon arrival, I take escape to the porch to see the waves lapping beautifully upon the shore and I think that I will miss this when I have to leave. it is 5 a.m. and the sun has not yet risen. we take shots of cheap tequila in celebration and pretend that they are water. only looking back on this do I realize what a hilarious irony it holds. in childhood, many of us would pretend that pretzels were cigarettes and take ***** shots with the caps of our water bottles. maybe this small act is a form of regression. maybe were all still children.

everyone begins to make music as inspiration spills onto them and I watch in awe. at 6 a.m. we are down on the beach. I do not remember how I got there. I can only remember seeing you sit high on the lifeguard stand, a king, looking down at the world as if it were yours, and I wish I could give it to you. my wind beaten cheeks meet the horizon as I topple into the sand in fits of laughter and happiness; I wish I could bottle this feeling so I would never lose it. Joy is a foreign language to me. others seem to comprehend it and spill it from their mouths so simply, while I do not understand a single syllable.

I don't remember how we arrived back inside. everyone seperated. we climbed into the bed that an old friend had broken and made love as the sun rose. it cut sharp through the glass door behind us and sprayed waves of light on my skin like liquid gold. I am thinking this could be the last time, I am hoping it is not. we fall asleep not long after, and this piece of communion that was placed so gently on my tongue dissolves and the bitter taste in my mouth begins as soon as I wake, a few hours later.

day two is a chapter I would most likely title: The Panic. it does not begin right away. our day mostly consists of laying on the beach and kicking sand at one another like ratty, wild dogs, forcing each other into the pit of frozen waters, and making bets we will never go through with. around this time news has reached me that my mother and father have the police looking for me. I try to push it towards the back of my head.

but you see, the inner depths of my mind are already flooded with sinister ideas and broken secrets I may never share, and this panic tip-toes throughout my body and sets into my bones, weighing me down as if I had boulders in my pockets.

I am told to "calm down, everything will be Okay." when tears frequently line my eyes in silence. they continue to tell me this when we find ourselves in the kitchen scrambling to pack our things because we've heard the cops are coming for me. they also tell me this when I'm screaming apologies and holding your hand in the backseat of the car. they tell me it when I say goodbye at a nearby park and give hugs I think may be my last for a while. but the thing about this statement is, I am always calm. I am in a numb state of inner silence hungering for bliss and just four little days of freedom. but nothing will ever be Okay, no matter how long I've gone away.

the walk home, only a mile, was beyond limits of the word beautiful. the stars were practically beaming and the air was cold but in the good way like a puppies nose when it's kissing your face. or like mist falling from the sky on a summer night. I don't believe in God or any higher power, but I take this walk home as a sign that maybe everything will be okay when I walk back into that house.

if I could describe how the weather should have been that night to match the actions that played out when I arrived, they would be along the lines of destruction. trees ripped from the ground with their roots showing. winds sweeping the roofs off this suburbian wasteland. lighting strikes bringing on raging fires. it must've looked like that to match the look in my fathers eyes. thunder should've accompanied the sound of him shoving my sore body against the wall. pulling my long brown hair and tossing me to the floor like the garbage I was.

the full wave of panic washes onto me in that moment. for some reason I thought of the father I once had that didn't drink every night with his girlfriend, the only one that ever seemed to matter anymore. I thought of the father before he left my mother. I thought of him banging scratched pots in the sink and slamming doors with the strength of one thousand men and shouting with the voice of a man with a million sources of pain. I thought of how he tried to leave us once. and then how he really left us. I wish he could understand. to me, this is the ultimate level of hypocrisy. I am persecuted for leaving the man that left me in my time of need.

I am almost relieved when he says I must talk to the police. I have never been a fan of the flashing red and blue lights and the uniformed men who are paid to protect you but only arrest you. I believe they do mostly harm to many innocent people. you may not understand this. you may not know how it feels to walk up to this figure with the badge and want to tell him everything, to see if some shred of understanding lies beneath the deep cold stare in his eyes. but he only accuses me and attacks me with loose words that do not phase me. he does not let me speak. he is not here to help.

and so starts the beginning of the end. finally reaching the point where I am as trapped as I have always felt on the inside. the only question I keep getting asked is "why did you do it?" and I have yet to answer this. maybe I was homesick for a place that did not really exist. maybe I thought I would find salvation in a bed id never slept in but already loved more than my own. maybe I thought it was too repulsing for the two people who brought me onto this earth to be one of many reasons I desperately wanted to leave it.

I would love to tell them, my parents. everything. the abuse, the drugs, the cutting, the suicide attempt, the hell that eats me away everyday...they should know. but when your mother laughs when your doctor tells her that you show signs of major depression, you tend to believe this is just a game to her. talking to false friends on the phone and playing rich sports will always be more important. my fathers favorite tv shows and nightly few bottles of wine will overpower my tears and pleads for help. I am always stuck in an all knowing silence that everyone takes for stupidity. I've always said "darkness is my only friend now" but I think that night time is too beautiful to be an aquaintance of mine, and my friends are the Family by my side when my fists are full of blades and my feet are on the edge. I think this is the type of darkness that welcomes me as I wake every morning and sleep every night. it is the only place I know on this gigantic prison called earth. it settles inside of me and runs through my veins. it is carved in the walls of my skull and keeps my heart beating in a steady, empty rhythm. home, sweet home.

i found
that suburbian
love-seats
couldn’t hold
the kind of love
i was searching
for

and ***
between
crumbling
couch cushions
slowly became a
tedious night ritual:

mountain
ranges told
me from a
first-time-
glance that
i was worth
more than

a subtle
  "thank
     you.”
whispered
     into the
      curve of my
            breast.

so i left home
with holes in
my pockets
and a period
of harsh
abstinence
hanging over
my chest like

a ******* sword.

Stay put Owner occupiers  are now envied
corners of smudged wealth,
suburbian renters isotope
brandish new England
more the continental model.
In derelict public houses
inside weightless Box Rooms
every blade of concrete counts.
I shall play in once Lavender fields
and usher questions.
How many times
do we render our knowledge?
ghost town forms are in submission,
again recession chimes
more than a lack of opportunities,
but who are these  newcomers arriving en masse
to once bespoke areas
with money earned
from former unfashionable abodes ?

I haven't been on here in months.
I haven't written anything in months either.
I haven't even opened up a book,
and my drum set has mostly been collecting dust.
It's sad I know, but to be honest
I haven't been doing much of anything lately.

I've been in and out of court,
in and out of towns,
in and out of schools,
in and out of hospitals,
in and out of houses...
It's been one hell of a time to say the least.

I've been to the city's courthouse so often, it's almost funny.
Almost.
I recognize the security guards every time that I'm in there,
even when they switch shifts.
I know the layout from the first to the seventh floor.
I know which of their vending machines is the best to choose from
and how the elevator doesn't work the way it should.
That place is too familiar for my own good.
It's a world of officials in immaculate suits,
dishing out the ***** work in the most vicious of ways,
with small talk, fake smiles, sweaty palms and anxiety.

In the past year, I've lived in four different places
spread all across the Keystone state.
I look back on the first house I grew up in with a twisted nostalgia.
How could things have been that simple, that easy?
With one big happy family under a suburbian roof,
in a small little town that nobody's ever heard of.
The simple times.

That simplicity was shattered,
with the family broken and trying to go our separate ways.
I did love our next house for just a few reasons though.
I loved the fresh new perspective.
I looked at my town in a whole new way.
Hell, I looked at everything differently.
I felt safe and secure,
even though we were living paycheck to paycheck, day by day.
Our next-door neighbor was the sweetest woman that I've ever met.
She brought the culture of her home-country to us,
getting us together for meals,
brewing tea with sugar cubes on a silver platter.
And even though things were turning into absolute ****,
I thought that it was going to be okay.
It was nice while it lasted.

Living in the mountains was refreshing.
I was torn away from everything I had ever known and loved,
****** into a living arrangement that was not exactly ideal.
Secluded by trees, nestled at least a half hour away from civilization.
But you take what you can get when you have nowhere else to go.
It's funny how life works.
I grew to appreciate the simple things:
having a bed to sleep in,
food to eat,
a place to shower,
clothes to wear.
I finally started understanding my life as it truly was,
a big, swirling mess.
But it was okay, because I was finally going to start anew.

Wrong.
Suddenly we were back down where we used to be.
A tad bit further south, just on the edge of the Maryland line.
Once again I had a new perspective,
once again in a living situation that was not ideal.
It's been rather awkward,
being forced to live with family friends.
It was either that, or I would've been forced to live with a monster.
You take what you can get when there are no other options.
This is the life.

It's pitiful to see the state that I'm in.
One would think that I am a pill-popping drug dealer,
for all the bottles of pills that I have with me.
A little bit of Naproxen, some Carafate,
along with Pantoprazole, Methylprednisolone,
standard painkillers and Flexeril, among others.
But nothing is touching the pain,
and the doctors are running out of ideas.
If my father doesn't **** me, this stress certainly will.


Ladies and Gentlemen, I know this isn't exactly a poem...
I don't even know what to call it.
It's just something that I've thrown together for my sanity,
because I've tried everything else.
It's just a big clusterfuck of words,
because I don't even know what I'm saying anymore.
It's just what I've been up to lately.

Slip and swim
into
spiked super sleep  
slippery stereo
sound
Senses seduced by silence
stolen solitude
And shuffled sedation
Suburbian escape

don't know, never used them,
for me the experience was
akin to:
walking to a supermarket
for a 6-pack of beer,
passing a thai bi-******
on a bench, frantic in conversation
on the phone,
buying the beer
in a supermarket,
walking back, stopping
to ask for something,
or she was asking for a cigarette
lighter... sitting down with her...
talking... blah blah...
asking: you want to come
home with me?
consent.
     cool cool,
a few beers later,
a jazz record...
          ******* in the garden
when night came...
then walking her home,
giving her my coat,
as she explained:
i'm drowning in it...
         a necklace with
a ring attached,
to be paid my compliments...
   i keep gagging at this memory
for, all the reasons,
that suggest,
and the times i went to
a nightclub in essex?
   and didn't get so much
as a kiss, or get laid?
and this sort of **** pops up?
beer, supermarket round,
a random girl,
a public park bench,
******* in the garden?
          sometimes i drift into
central london...
brick lane...
  the clubs there,
and i'm like...
           what the **** happened here?
dating apps...
ah... so...
not the classical circumstance
of clarified transaction,
no man, no *******,
"something,  "in between?"
i guess i never married because:
(a) chernobyll birthmark
that kept people wanting to **** me,
from a state of infancy
(b) high blood pressure in
my early 30s
(c) acne...
           (d) 6ft1 and a full crop of hair...
(e) i forget what that is...
  (f) not circumcised...
(g) the "existential" concerns
for global warming
   and limiting the population
of the world...
  which, in new dehli sounds
a bit like: blah ah ha ha ha ha!
winners all round.

my god, i tried, i tried,
but what became more important,
was regards to how:
i could perfect the most spectacular
failure of myself...

           prostitutes helped...
i tried speed dating once,
let the whole scene with
a room-mate of mine
doing a big-*** L index-thumb
hand signal against his forehead...

     and then i never dated,
i don't actually know what a date
is...
   dating... compared to...
arranged marriage?
      what's that?
   someone revealing themselves
to another person online,
but when there's a need
for conversation,
all the facts are known?
  is, that it?
            
             i thought that profiling
was a repository for intelligence
agencies...
   so... i'd write an internet dating
profile,
    but then revel in any private
information, that would
reveal my personality,
before...
       the wining and dining?
so... what would be the point
of disclosing all the sort of information,
that might be required,
on a date, for the sake of conversation?!

i must be a + + autistic or something,
i skipped the dating apps,
went straight for the company
of prostitutes, passed the priest
and the psychiatrist...
            
  that really was a thai surprise back
in the park...
   how is that "scored"?
   he.... she was somehow a 5...
i figured...
    the lesser the "quality",
the higher the chances for a hard-on's
worth of a madonna-***** complex
antithesis of limp ****...
    implying an *******...

if social media was a "thing"
back in 2007...
and dating apps were a, "thing"
in 2017...
   i've just spent 10 years living
under a rock...
        as rare as it is...
i did the organic scout routine...
never "buy" a *******
for credit, keep everything debit...
and... on the odd occassion
that you chance a ****-buddy
while picking her up from
a public park bench...
                    well...
        
       chances are... you'll come across
a thai surprise.

games have become to represent
coping mechanisms
of... the "old age angst of not getting laid"...
i cared for a while,
then i realised:
surely this must apply to circumcised men,
no?
              why would you feel
****** frustration,
    social anxiety, angst...
    e nomine type of soundtrack?
i can sort of imagine
how paedohpilia arises:
   men, being intimidated by women
their own age...
   i can give you a theory of how
it starts...
       but the end: it always the tender
obvious...
   i once walked behind one...
knowing on outer-suburbian doors...
with one being opened...
a kick to the head...
   the shattered kiddy-****** walked on...
didn't even dial 999
and reported the assault...
       it's funny... how the concept
of law intra-man works,
when the scientific findings
of the medium, the inter-man works...
leave us, at best...
just that... inter-****,
  while the intra-****...
         eh... side note...
            
                       i'm surprised that...
muhammad...
     was a paedo...
      but not an alcoholic...
           i too found it weird that
i automated jerking off aged 8...
      my sister was an alsatian shepherd...
and my brother was a dobermann...

            my dream job,
when, working in a music shop was
disavowed...
   is still working into a slaughterhouse;
and what would possibly be so
"weird" about that?

             dating is such a bad idea
once you've invested an interest
in going to a brothel...
         dating... such an alien concept...
the complete lack
of a transaction clarification
of a date, compared to an hour's
worth spent with a *******?
             it is a "short-cut"...
but i'd also hate to play the "game"
of life...
   dating, i'd much prefer going
to a tailor,
     as i learned from doing
the brothel round...
   first comes the *******,
later the realisation of a turkish barber...

     i skipped that part...
this whole...
   date... etiquette play-thing theatre...
social norms...
   social norms:
i either ****, or i get ******.

i have no reason for sun... bees have,
                          flowers have...
my eyes are reserved for greater pleasures,
bound to the meow... moon...
         oh crap...
       yellow... orange... red...
i hate daylight...
it's not even some sort of
urban fetish...
          my eyes are just too outer
urban... they're outer-suburbian,
bordering on village life...
       ****'s sake,
i use a computer wearing sunglasses,
most of the time, esp. at night;
listening to portishead
just takes the eye via the ear...
    and sleeping with a cat that
you fight with, when asleep,
and the cat ends up biting / scratching
your ear, so you end up bleeding on the pillow
that your head was rested on?
well... m'eh... just another
*** & ms. pepsi refill, basis
                      for a dionysus trance;
no, i get bleeding through your *** from
alcohol "abuse", but from ypur *******
ear?! your ear?
             i did get a nose bleed once
in english glass...
          who, the, ****, ever, heard, of, an, ear, bleed?
well... unless you're falling asleep with
a 10 kilogram maine **** cat....
      with both of you wrestling with each
other in your sleep... mother... ******!
when was the last time you heard someone
say: i bled through my ear... ?!
now... i love a cat's "snoring"... purring
the cat makes before he's (i'm a man...
i'll use he... not she... and it is just... ugh)...
it's a bit like snoring... only that they
imitate snoring... and purr...
                               prior to falling asleep
    and turning all stealth-mode silent.
ah... the demands of future, descriptive excesses,
in bitesize form of "poetry";
                 lucky us, jezebels of the arts;
i still can't believe how
           (well, the nag hammadi library),
or why, grammar became so popular, in
that it became political;
frankly... i like seeing the latter
from an archeological perspective, i,e. "catching-up"...
as far as politics goes... and what i deem
a mishandling of language by abusing
grammatical categorisations of words...
please... count me out from any "serious" discussion.

a drunk is not going to, suddenly,
think himself as anything,
other than a "before"...

         to integrate into a culture,
is to be governed by a bias,
or at least, to be,
alleviated by the bias,

   i came upon these isles
without a pior post-colonial
juidgement,
  but i'm sensing that,
that's what's required
to allow the shallow standards
of integration...

see, my position is far from
unique,
i don't actually dispose myself
to calm the nerves
of a northern transit of
    counter-arguments,
against the racists...

    am i here,
  solely to inherit this circus
of the current events?
can i just listen to the epitome
of the 1980s...
with simply red...
and not something akin
to the cure or
depeche mode?
  god, they were great,
in hyde park...
who? depeche mode...
beat aerosmith...
   two girls in company...
promis and...
  she's... she's....
            already married...
i remember talking to her
on d.m. via MSN...
her name...
                    not Alesha...
i'm pretty sure it began
with an A...
   no, Lebanon doesn't spawn
Alisons...
  ****! what was her name?
Braintree! ****...
that's a city in Essex...
   Ayisha...
                no... that's not it...
         she's Lebanese...
****...
                i can't remember her name,
a name that's,
           pop culture worth...
so much for Layla,
so much for Keileigh...
  so much for all the other
love songs...
                   ****!
now i have it!
            ALICIA...
               leb- alicia...
tender as a daffodil...
           ****! i managed to remember!

Alice in Woderland: *** C.I.A.,
  leb-
       eh...
  **** me...
i just planted a cherry tree....
i'm getting bitten on the non-existing
bite-markers compensation...
                 around the toes...
    there's a solo aspect
of rhythm guitar,
in the line of sight
of clapton...
    and i'm fiddling,
to find the proper jazz trumpet...
and a pawnbroker jew,
and...
       the "magic" celtic stone
of prayer to boot?

   well, that's me,
happy to be the fiddly drunk,
happy to be drunk,
  happy to not have
the sort of narrative that
might not allow,
someone having their life
ruined...    

               as i told one gilded crown
of patience and company:
you know, that i'll ruin you...
then? she drops out 4 sweethearts...
and i... luckily,
remained confined to making
company with shadows...

                i'd love to become bitter,
as i'd love, to also,
become prone to the waiting game,
lies, and the persistence of
covering up markers,
whether by foot or by hands,
or the items of hair of nails...

  n'ah...
i must prefer someone living a lie,
than outright stripping them
of the "decency" to conjure up
a throng outlet of lied to: people...
           some would claim:
i'm bitter happy...
  i'm the pristine, operatic example
              prone
of schadenfreude...
i abhor exercising my
canvas of emotion
   against the paint-brush of
                                 schadenfreude...
no point: in fact,
of slaughtering an animal:
if you're not going to eat it...

so i came across the english,
post-scriptum of the, empire...
i hear a voice from the north
diminish the per se existence pride...
and i'm like...
   all i have to inherit,
is a garden, in an out-suburbian
setting...
      what the **** have i inherited,
that the natives,
will not own up to?
                   am i supposed
to own up to their past history,
is history even being towed
to make a summary,
of next week's Monday?

          so i'm supposed to come
"clean" concerning
the Ukrainians,
the Lithuanians...
   or the fact that the "other"
commonwealth,
was non-existent, until about,
100 years ago?
  lucky me: there's no pride associated
with it...
   i just don't know what it feels
like, what it feels like,
belonging to a horde of shrapnel
individualists,
cosmopolitan...
             zombie-brains...

  you got me...
      i speak an acquired language of
a people i can't relate to outside
of London,
and i've inherited a language
of a people i can't relaste to,
beside "exile"...
   economic "war",
such a slow riddled theatre...
            
    i know the blame i'm supposed
to put on myself:
i will continue celebrating
my drinking excesses...
          but i will not...
suddenly, somehow...
       concentrate all this blame &
shake gaming,
for a pontius pilate diversion...
and allow...
the other side: the full pardon...
scot-free behaviour...

   i can take the blame i am allowanced...
but to... somehow...
walk away blameless?
    sure... prostitutes...
because i didn't feel like
being ****** over by
"spy dough in the oven"
dynamic of lying about
contraception...

          unless you're about to tell me
that s.t.d's are transmitted ******,
via slurping on
a warm slush-puppy of excess skin...
you tell me...
   i should have found myself
mildly entertained
by playing the roulette,
than ******* some russian hag.

the world renowed english: black humour...
schwarzhumor...
better known by its "high german" -
alt-vater-zunge... schadenfreude term...
perhaps this anglo-slav of me always
found an iron maiden
of self-censorship to never
allow myself a pleaßure from this...
"sense of humor"...
it's not that i'm gripped with
either sympathy or empathy -
i guess i am... more or less:
arms tied... pretending to be a rock
or a ghost when...
we shared a laugh:
once upon a time... when one of us
was kicked in the *****...
or the football came full force
in a football match against the genitalia...
or how i was so wrapped up
in reading a newspaper while
walking... i'd walk into a lampost...
it's not laughing at misfortune is
general... it's a quick-equipped
circumstance of slapstick humor...
the base instinct... almost paranoid
in waiting... because you suspect
the universe to find the counter joke...
of close proximity karma...
you laugh nervously...
because: the 12th rule for life...
sorry... can anyone translate the fact
that petting a cat in a street...
is by far the hardest rule "for life"...
that cats do not come with:
readily petted... by strangers...
unless... so unloved by their owners
they become "missing"...
lost dogs and "missing" cats...
a cat is never missing...
i own two cats = i vacuum the house
every, single, ******* day...
sometimes i'm vacuuming spare air...
but i always wish for vacuuming
to be fishing-esque...
the need for the house to be clean...
shedded-furr-free is...
almost compulsive...
but it's necessary...
it's not that ****** easy to pet a cat
in the street...
it's too obscure to be a rule...
dumb dog will be whipped and either
turn around and bite...
or further his nostalgia for the all-loved-puppy...
distrustful creatures...
these cats... a black cat crosses your path...
the number 13... bad luck...
elsewhere... not here: not with me...
it's hardly a rule... because it can't be kept:
no random cat is willing to be petted
by a stranger on the street...
first of all... you need to walk the streets
at night...
but this is about...
never being inclined to entertain
schadenfreude...
among the western slavs... the polacks...
there's only plainsight jealousy...
i can stretch my palette when it comes
to the english schwarzhumor:
the ridicule and the terse accounts...
and the bombast...
i can entertain this dry scrutiny:
cptn. obvious in tow...
but the old rhine black forest humour?
schadenfreude...
i actually find it less difficult to avoid
encountering this mild sadism...
what's harder? faking apathy...
because when confronted with having
to disguise either empathy or sympathy...
is much harder than to give way
to schadenfreude...
back into the co-ordination of a self:
your self: reflective -
yourself: the reflexive...
it's a balancing act... and it's near impossibility
of stratifying "neuter"...
well...
apathy - what a paradoxical word -
a bit like psychopath -
the pathology associated with the existence
of a soul - psychopathy and exclusive materialism...
apathy: to be freed from all and any
pathology is a pathology per se:
which is apathy...
it's this automated "free ride" that
drags along minor details...
posists spotting microaggressions...
you see them... for your own pleaßure...
since there's no major hinderence...
no clarified pathos -
no obliterating ****** impetus -
the middle-ground: no-man's-land...
i currently have a cold - that famous...
voltaire definition of living in england:
the forever-cold...
the bounty of living on an island...
premature arthritis and constant colds...
away from the dry air compensations
of continental air...
sure... it does rain on the continent...
but you're not surrounded by water
all the time!
perhaps the + is that...
given so much water around...
the daytime hours come sooner
during the winter months...
than they do on the continent...
it's this... ******* island damp!
but - in all honesty... a cold is a welcome
period of: immediate discomfort...
with immediate remedies at hand...
discomfort as: less lethargy and more
nausea...
i know the signs of this minor discomfort...
all i have to look at is...
the uvula...
i know i'm in the chicken-shack enclosure
of the common, mundane cold:
ad nauseam when the uvula...
is... not swollen... but elongated... seemingly dripping...
when the uvula is touching the tongue
when the mouth is open... i know i have
been infected by a common discomfort...
would this ever stop me drinking?
hardly...
but tonight... no need to walk
the labyrinth of the outer english suburbian
streets looking for cats and foxes "to pet"...
the third tonsil is still in place -
it almost looks like a overtly-wrinkled
nutmeg stone...
and it protrudes itself in the gob
when an automated reaction to regurgitation
plays a role...
from the days when i used to mind
my weight and physique...
also having succumbed to classical
bulimia (roman) -
or eating and then regurgitating what
i ate... ******* down the throat
at first... until the oesophagus was
properly trained...
but an uvula that's "trickling" down...
like a mama goat's ****** that has been
****** off too many times...
and is lazily agitating the tongue it
rests on... then i know i have a common cold...
i experienced schadenfreude once...
but it was the immediacy that surrounded it...
it became an outburst of laughter:
spontaneously or rather:
if i were th lucky man, wearing a top hat
or a bowler... walking through trafalgar sq.
and having a pigeon **** on it...
but there's a doubled problem surrounding
schadenfreude... these days...
it's a humour associated: brooding-over...
or like reading a charles dickens novel...
something bogus like so...
it's hardly married to the child of spontaneity...
or the reflexive invitation: like water,
most unstoppable...
humour in a sense: pickling cucumbers
so that they become gherkins...
those tiny little oddities of the kingdom
of... the vegetative state of affairs...
i don't know why i would enjoy this...
ancient (not so primitive) sense of humour...
today i finally realised working my way
around the alarm clock...
and what a beautiful morning it was...
being woken up with music...
full blast: american head charge's debut
album... rather than some alien sound
of gongs and castrated gods, or sparrows...
a tonne of elephant **** landed in my room
and i became chirpy like a sparrow
without... what those gypsies get up to:
sing-along *******: happy r.e.m. -
peoples of the world: disunite...
two jokes: why do italian men grow moustaches?
so they can look like their mothers...
nick nolte: head full of honey...
decent film...
joke no. 2... why are all german jokes...
it's better than these people have a car to export...
there is no german joke...
little brother england - the expansion
of saxony is one thing... but hearing
a pomeranian joke is... watching the *******
tide becomes funnier the minute i close my
eyes and imagine: the need to blink upon
opening my eyes again...
this lazy uvula... soar throat...
more like: the uvula made a bed from the tongue
and forgot to dangle:
my mouth the church bell: the uvula the gong...
but not this lounging...
*****-****** ****** off too many times:
milking cow ******* thrice daily state of
sick... common sick... boring sick...
where the everest of the major discomforts...
like the ghost leg of an amputee?
teasing fate?
fun out of what? low i.q. or...
            karma-paranoia?
      choice of words... lepidopterological ask:
a cloud of:        e     d      r
                        a      b     n     o   r
                             i     h     m   p   w:
red baron whimp...
this... monolingual fetish for... best we not learn
another tongue in fear of becoming schizoprenic /
bilingual... need fortifications!
anagrams and crosswords!
the trouble of meeting an english native-speaker
half-way...
you'll never meet an english native-speaker
half-way... either way or no way...
a rare event... sooner coming across
a polyglot or a polymath than a willing...
native bilingual...
greenwich meridian: bellybutton people
of the world: the center of attention!
     even if the natives go against the welsh...
from the outside looking in?
not that many compliments going to scotland...
gaelic somewhat: more like mostly:
the trajectory of: but we kept the accents
the hark-and-harking-sense of sing-along:
tweed and tartan!
yes... but the welsh...
kept... llachar coch
    llaчar coх (cyrillics borrowed)...
or llakhar (kh - к) coх... draig...
gwyn heddwch (hedłх) rhag uchod...
gwyrdd porfeydd isod...
dazzling red dragon:
white tranquilty from above...
green pastures below...
              not so much can be said
about the scots: who "forgot" gaelic...
mainstream...
but: och! the glaswegian accent!
mein herr! what a bounty!
               i have a real problem with schadenfreude...
i don't know... perhaps...
i never appreciated the joke of:
having to walk in someone else's shoes:
literally...
if they are too big: the sensation of
walking the clown's walk
on a ground littered with dead squid...
slipping but not slipping...
otherwise the cramp and "claustrophobia"
of being a tip-toeing geisha...
or something from that chinese nightmare
of the lotus feet of the Song and Qing dynasties...
called: lotus feet... more like...
pork-stilletos choppers...
you can almost spot a hoof in this
man-made deformity...
blah blah all you want about the superiority
of the chinese ideograms: dear ezra...
sure... a chinese ideogram as... a brick
to be lent in building the great wall... against
the mongol...
but... at the end? what's being said:
the crude syllable: chin chong shin diggy diggy.

Trouble Lord it aint easy
Just a tad of dissatisfaction
Under welter
downsizing expectations
Its hard when your trapped in the suburbs
I cant get enough of the rainshine
on my washing line
il est cinq heures alors
and I cant get enough faith
without you
Pride cant steal my heart

I'm a clown
so listen to the people
from their garden shed
make  carnation tea
I make you laugh
at the sight of a busy street
with a line of giraffes parking on  
your Lego collection
Your porous  pond is a rivulet now

Suburbian morning
8.38 on the commuters dot
Here's your Tempus Fugit moment
Something is not right
not a cheery rose hip now
but at least you can diarise it