This is not, a time to loosen up
Or nine to five job to give up
Just saddle up the power is in you
Five ladies cafe to dine at five and
drove_* the meter is running
(The Canadian Cup) team versus the
     Taxi Cup
He swooned you in your
Five dreamy but half heart sugars
Come on Baby bloomers
Let's see some boom!!

In your hips men will be men taking
frequent flyer trips temptation 1 2345
We need fewer digs one love teo reasons
World  345  heart flags
We don't have to cross our hearts
Perhaps tattoo heart legs no more strikes
Jumping Jack flash
What a rope in this isn't the Pope

Somehow we all get broke
To court her like your the lasso
stars cosmos hearts like Lassie
Never a change of subject how it
remains in your heart how it hit hard
to react but changed to five cards
Digging too long  lucky 777 like heaven
Heart digs

1-where?
Oh! There

No, I am here
We are always  
In-between
numbers_ I only
have 5 minutes
No I phone have a heart
Oh! where is designed for me
Those five plates

Whats in between them
      *Him
We are opening Live- Five
Strong heart to give the caring
The useful heart is never so daring
My gate* Girls are nail digging
Hugging
Or losing add +

Flirty
*****
Our community
Heftier like Jupiter
Heart to build
the gravity
A big kiss hunch
of five roses

Your getting to bloom
but only have
5 extra movie parts
The front dress mermaid tail
Your heart delicate hands
opened up your emails
I think you hit the
Jackpot

Max to the million shot
No heart of gold
Only more leaders
Scrambling and digging
your fork
Mixing those egg beaters

Five men think they know
there women
like ten
commandments
Turn to five wrong
engagements
There it goes the lucky
five arguments

A plot beating
like a hot-shot
The French Baguette
Bread 9 to 5 firecracker
Five-carat baguette
wedding band in her safe
Heart digs to five hands
Heart neck guilty as a giraffe

The cafe house had only
5 cups left  they sold you out
Only Five Bed and breakfast
stayers
Do detailed with their Ladyfingers
But need more alone time
Be on time get sweet key lime
What is real-time so sublime

That rose- paper cut- origami
Sorcerer of five he was like the
cold cuts of big Sub Salami
Japanese sword samurai
What a Geronimo Oh! no
Jericho
This wasn't a hot potato

Or Gizmo No-Go
Getting a shot for Polio
The gusto songs to the heart play
Maestro the Cosmo's
The five stars to heart his
afterglow
Like a titanic ship but heroics

Five lunatics wedding horns ******
Five two timer Mario gamers
so demonic
DOMINO'S bed five students wed
We dug deeper get-up sleepy-head
Exposed cries location set
Network U- dig cups

Something lip curved
He misplaced my lips
What did he do in exchange
More stocks and hard stone rocks
Like frying pan egg
scrambled words

Crossed heart Rapper so believing
The Fox five sticking tacky glue
His CD Rose lying pants no clue
Painful pointed shoes need R&R
     Robin's *Responsibilities
       The Heart On Replay
The deeper you dig to restart

The healthy organically grown brain
Men on Pause I truly believe nature
takes its course
but another beat to go is that so?
And if so heart digs to five
Feel the good vibe in another tribe
Five times I had to wake you up
I am the love cure reminiscing

Giving me five reasons
Our beautiful change of
heart in season
Studying the fine art heart
Referencing
Never refusing thats life
five-step to strive nothing
Fancy

Robin shoutbox she getting
her point across
Either you're the worker or loner
The heart pleaser the boss
Your heart looks good
on your dress
Whether we win or deep mess
The good heart can change to
a bad start

Recharge your heart count to five
Venus- beauty moved on like a
pathologist digging over staying alive

Three sugars. No cream.
Stuck inside a 4 A.M. Dream
And there's nothing I can't do
Is the sky really black or just dark blue?

No cars, no souls save preying police
Their lights burn red and scream, "Freeze!"
And the night obliges
For it is not so mighty

Glass half full, still starving
Clouds overmind work their sky carving
Of all my favorite fluffy animals
Are vampires iron deficient cannibals?

The sun soon breaks like an egg on the edge
And the dream skitters light spiders from my head
Eyes pressed to withered pillow sheathing
Is this morning or deeper evening?

Am I waking from the dreaming
Or am I sleeping next to coffee steaming?

.do you really need a disclaimer, for this sort of work? no, not really... it's not exactly being allowed the equivalency of dropping an in excess of 2000mg of paracetamol.

the one aspect of legacy media, that still has some viability, akin to rekindling the famous extract from the movie: all the presidents men... is concerns for metal health issues of youngsters, who didn't have, the, "privilege" of being exposed to internet ergonomics, other than within the confines of gaming, they came far too late for, what replaced mp3 sharing.... ideas are not exactly sound-bites of copyright infringement...

**** me... do i really have to slap then punch
myself in the face, to remotely stay
awake while drinking ***** like pepsi
sharpshooters?
     i guess so...

   i too, "suffered" from roman bulimia,
the classical kind...
   don't ask me how i managed to make
the esophagus contender of the heart,
muscle...
                 at first it was cheap choc down
the throat, missing on brushing my
teeth for 48 hours...
   then... ******* down the throat,
like the ****-style gimmick of the Watergate
informant...
       came back up, bundled in quasi turds
packages...
               classical Roman bulimia -
eat, regurgitate, eat some more,
hell, now you have a Pompeii style
banquet of the coming of age...
laxatives?
that's no bulimia...
  bulimia is an extension of an ancient
Roman practice, akin to throwing yourself
****-naked into a nettle shrub area...
to get the "itches"...
     that method, involved in energizing
the neuron extension of the skin...
              it's a "placebo" itch...
   nettles, ancient Romans,
and bulimia like the rite of a loss of
virginity of kings...
      festering at its core... of the French court...
with a *****'s teaching apparatus,
leveraging the use of, a single "tool"...
           and even though the ancient Romans
never reached my people...
i get to abuse their phonetic encoding stratum...
bulimia... sure... i, "suffered" from it...
not really, no... i ******* enjoyed
the regurgitation process...
   anti-Grecian pederasty gimmick...
(a) taking a ****
   (b) oral regurgitation
   imitating an ancient Roman banquet
(c) / (d) ensuring the two entry points
are filled by an external source -
wishing for vanilla custard *******...
none to be...
    oops...
               so no one taught these girls
about ancient Roman bulimic
practices?
   you work on the esophagus...
                       by the time i finished
the transition period...
  i automated the esophagus reaction...
like training gymnastics for a six-pack...
no longer ******* down the throat...
you say charge? i think of
a rhino juggernaut...
           so no one bothered these girls
introducing ancient methodologies
to their predicament?
    no training of the esophagus,
no two (index + middle) fingers down
their throat to ease their larynx from
a gagging order?
    none of it?
   they'll grow out of it!
i did...
       drink a liter of ***** per day
and i'm feeling: shimmy!
          upon each nocturnal investment
that i translate into writing...
      anorexia?
    give them excess coffee...
              or strong cider...
      the most pristine aperitif...
    you can't cure anorexia with either
drips or syringes...
   you need aperitifs...
                     but please don't give them
white vinegar...
           you need a balance of alcohol
overcoming the sugars...
     strong beer is alcohol overcoming
starches... won't work...
     coffee and sugar helps...
  both simulate the pristine form of
the marijuana *****...
             it's not poison...
so why should i care?
   oh but i do care... reading this article...
troubled teenagers dodge Instagtram
   curbs on photos glorifying self-harm...
ever tried burning out a cigarette tip
on your knuckle?
   ever wondered about
    warming up a hand of scissors and
giving yourself an indie tattoo?
   while at the same time...
relying on the mouse principle?
i.e. remaining pipsqueak clean from
making any noise?!
              cutting is so crass...
so unimaginative...
  you will not achieve the adrenaline *****
status of a stab-victim...
   there is no element of surprise...
but...
     if you really want to ingest pain?
hmm... hmm?
            heat up a scissor arm...
   and put it against your skin...
            and then... EAT... the pain...
with what you can surmount in and with,
silence...
                   cutting is too... dramatic...
at least burning yourself you have
not achieved the stature of a shedding blood...
cleaner, more effective,
think of orange recycling bags
collected at the start of the week...

              **** me though...
you seen the comradely behavior
of competing athletes, at the european
championships in Berlin,
   with the pole vaulters?
   Armand Duplantis -
congratulated for having crossed
the 6m benchmark of respectability...
now... that's sport!
football, soccer, basketball,
call it what you like...
   that's not sport, that's business,
that's advertisement...
     that's concussion cover-ups...

Epke Zonderland? also a doctor...
communist Poland believed in
sport, sport on the side,
   sport was never to reach status
of a mono-career investment...
            most of the local football
players from my hometown,
also worked less hours in
the metallurgy plant...
                  that's sport...
   a healthy balance...
which, mainstream sport is lacking...
oh look...
   the women doing the hammer throw,
or the discus...
   not exactly Vogue / Chanel catwalk
material...
    mandible beauties...

    to be honest? the doping affair
in the Olympic sports?
   but a minor setback of credibility...
     i rather watch that...
   than those pitiable 22 ballerinas in soccer.

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

He forgot his soap
What a dope
No one here can cope
He's worse than campfire smoke

He could of brought it on a rope
So he wouldn't have to *****
Instead he'll mope
For friends he's got no hope

They run when they scope
The boy without his soap
Rolling down the *****
Singing baroque
Like the pope

He tried a bath in coke
Oh what a joke
Because the sugars provoke
Mosquitoes to bite and poke.

Still he stinks like BO and oak
Smells like a singer of folk
Whose hair is matted into rope
Cause he won't use soap
What a dope!

One cup of tea is not enough...
Two cups of coffee is what usually wakes me up and
two sugars in the morning is,
perfectly sweet.

One day you'll be mine,
if not Today then, some other time
Well that's what I'm hoping,
Please tell me you'll have hope too
and two songs are not enough,
to say "I Love You"

Well just one of me,
can't do much for you but
two hearts beating like ours sounds pretty beautiful
and sometimes one word,
can make a difference
well for me that one word is you...

So come into my life now
and don't you dare leave without me...
'Cause one plus one can make an infinity

One photograph is not enough,
I'd want a couple more of you of me and both of us
two pair of eyes...
occupied with thoughts that can't be sung

Well if you want to play dinosaur mini golf,
in the summer...
You can just call me up any time that you wanna
and we can grab a takeaway coffee
and take the long way back home.. (woah oh)
One cup of infinity please, to go...

One plus one can make an infinity if you want it to,
and that one plus one could be me and you.

A learned scientist opines
in outer space there are two lines:
Proteins that would mirror mine,
and sugars of a non digestible kind.
On Earth “Left handed” proteins rule
at Barrows base right up to Thule.
“Right handed” sugars fuel our race
“left Handed” sugars have no place.
In our earthly reality
We have homochirality.

Still, somewhere in the cosmic dust
might be the opposite of us.
On a world no meteor ever scored
Might be space faring dinosaurs!
Intelligent, cunning and with big teeth-
Suppose they come to disturb our “peace”
Velociraptors with ray guns
might be as nasty as they come.
Thank God the U.S. has Marines
to blow those “Saurs” to smithereens.
Then, after they have taken their licking
We’ll find out if they taste like chicken.

that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
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        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an

sample precursor: there are three binding directions of a chemical group (e.g. CH3) to the benzene ring - the ortho-, the meta- and the para-... but i'll ask a different question: what is copernican north what is copernican east a copernican west or a copernican west without a "flat-earth" / how else to read / navigate a 2D map going from point (a) via vector (c) to point (b) along the short-cut of the hypotenuse - which, isn't a short-cut, but the logical conclusion of walking neither the middle path nor the right path, but the logical path? we're no astronauts... we didn't see the proof... we can only entertain the "idea" of a 3D object we live on, but we're still strapped to a "flat earth" in order to navigate... endless stories of how GPS tech. fooled people off the edge of a cliff... "flat earth" is no reverse psychology ploy... i'm no ******* astronaut... i never stood left right or center on the moon to have the foggiest sense of admiration for that awe-balancing moment that leaves so many deluded in it being otherwise: first come first served, last come: what's there's to serve that last man if not merely the drudge-report of a commute? besides... trans- and cis-, why are people borrowing from chemistry and attaching gender to what is exlusive to chemical compounds? look at them... pop chemistry... cis-trans isomerism... fine, let these people have that... my new n.e.w.s. (north, east, west, south): orthography, something clearly missing in the anglophone world (no diacritical markers, i and j do not count)... ergo? orthography = east... paranormal = west... since the west is obsessed with either aliens or hush-hush military projects... now... both north and south are meta- coordinates... on the basis, on the basis of what? two words really work well to establish a foundation: from ars poetica? metaphor (borrowed from a change of mind - meta- and -phren - mind, a change of mind, all mental illnesses are changes of the mind, alternatives to alleviate the stranglehold of the commune of the greater picture known as society)... but... there's also metaphysics... which is in the interest of philosophy... how else not to explain the obvious, how else to treat both the reader / audience as the well informed genius(es) but mistreat them as would be grander genius(es) if the socratic endeavour of "pretense ignorance" was not to be established? it's a hard juggle... east is already well established in orthography, west in paranomal... literally: metaphor - a change of mind, literally metaphysics - a change of groundwork physicality of things... a rock remains a rock in either "heaven" or in "hell"... metaphysically there seems to be a direct translation... this is why i'm terrible at crosswords, this whole puzzle structure of either working from a direct definition to the word itself, some random geographical posists, some historical posits, some outdated out-of-vogue words related to specified period idiosyncracy, a tinge of the therausus... my current crossword is an interchange: meta-phor, meta-physics, meta-phot, meta-physics and on and on it goes: even with the isolated prefix of meta-, if i return to the words: as they are... would: denoting a change of thinking (state of mind) or... denoting a change of physics, i'm met with metaphysics, i.e.: a branch of philosophy that deals with the first principles... sounds like a priori physics, yet all i can fathom if i wrestle this word to its casual use: isn't it a posteriori physics?! the what comes after physics? i should think that most people understand metaphysics on an a posteriori basis rather than an a priori basis... hence the question: what happens when we die? last time i checked: death happens last... birth happens first... any question-worthiness (according to heidegger) should begin at: the beginning rather than begin at the end, in the same way that all questions should be sought in a medium of predating the dates of events, rather than with a spirit of hindsight, hindsight belongs to the "what if" of history in that dynamism of expressed time... on the canvas of an infinitely expanding space: we seem to be riddled by a very cul de sac concept / expression of time: our quill - given that ****** didn't learn from napoleon when it came to russia... perhaps finding out what copernicus found out: "we" figured: get me off this ******* celestial carousel where i can't even feel the dizzy immediate of a ferris wheel! again: i'm terrible at crosswords, sudoku? no problem... but words: if not gushing out of me, waiting like a lizard predator for a linear narrative spew? count me out... i don't play with words, i use words... i'm a wordsmith, hence the ethnic origin denote: słowianin: slav - i don't know where these west-saxon punks derived their etymology from: słowo = word... *****-liquor juice teens thought it was: oh fo' sho' smart... still: metaphor, metaphysics... metaphor... metaphysics... disgruntled with the immediate compound readied for pop use... meta-physics... the vector is the prefix... why do philosophers push metaphysics so much, but in turn rely on the crutch of metaphor? to change their mind, if metaphysics is an abstract theory with no basis in reality, then the schizoid / metaphorical mind is an abstract in an abstracted theory of the mind - which has "no" knowledge of reality, or rather: "reality" excludes such a mind from ever absorbing an expression in it... a schizophrenic can't explain the reality of a person who can solve crossword puzzles... just as someone who solves crossword puzzles with a fear of alzheimer's: who treats the fatty tissue that's the brain as a muscle... given that the cells of alzheimer's disease are killer proteins... proteins as the antithesis of white blood-cells that feed of fat tissue... after all: what else could the brain be if not fat and water? slow burner... first the sugars, then the more complex carbohydrates, then the fat: last? the proteins... the process of starvation... you want up? you want down? again: metaphysics / metaphor... ta meta ta phusika... the things after the physics... so what's with the inverted: prior things? hence people associated a life after death... hence how philosophers have to escape into the poetic realm to quickly change their minds on the definition... a change of mind is much easier than a change of what physicality entails... most spew metaphors but keep on course... after all: given the genesis of the metaphor, a metaphor is just a tool, a humble stop-off pause... born from humble poetics: it's only a literary tool, it's not some grand pillar of morality associated metaphysics, which nonetheless dictates: first principles come last and last principles come first... here's my crossword puzzle: metaphor, metaphysics, meta-alpha, meta-beta, metaphor and the meta-alpha, metaphysics and the meta-beta... etc. etc., i will not solve this crossword puzzle, even though it doesn't look like a crossword puzzle... it's a narrative crossword puzzle, i'm just looking for the sort of fixed point people associate with prime words: red, left, blue, right, up, fox, dog... words of readied vocabulary, readied vocabulary dissociated from puzzled vocabulary... i want to established a fixed permanence of the dissociated close proximity grounded in the meta- prefix of the words meta-phor and, meta-physics... i'm starting to find this impossible, given how the words have dissociated themselves from the grounding in the meta- prefix... phor alias phren (mind) and the whole gush of isolated metaphysics of beginnings: meta a priori vs. meta a posteriori - and of course: meta a- apriori... hell if i can't solve crossword puzzles: since i already have a crossword puzzle in my head... what am i to do? try writing pop?! a dog does what his master orders, a jester tells a joke his king would find amusing... i'll just treat this enclave of an audience as a bunch of people subscribed to ulterior forms of voyeurism (dissociated from pain / pleasure gratification, esp. that of a ****** nature).

.you know like in latin you had the interchangeable tongue twisters æ and œ? well... english resurrected one more... au... oh stralia... auntie; ******* hell i've been speaking this since aged ate and i still can't get my tongue into that phonetic plughole... or what's that onomatopoeia for: it really hurts? awe... nah... aw... aw... well no cute kitten about to say aww.

well it began with the usual... i wish i didn’t...
sitting in the autumnal garden
drinking coffee and eating a nicotine croissant,
watching the fog recede into nothing
while the earth showed its naked cleavage
after what seems like centuries of arcane dryness
befitting a story of an egyptian idol...
then the panic set in...
what to cook?! what to cook?!
my mother is away visiting her parents in poland,
who celebrate the feast of all saints with the usual
tackle formidable in poland:
forget the paris fashion week, forget the london fashion week...
forget the next gucci advert...
all the action happens in poland’s annual all saints’ fashion week...
through the cemetery (ahem) cat walks
(more like death on rollerblades donning a tutu
and looking fatter than size 0 models)...
because that’s when the fur coats are worn,
the make-up is heavier and everyone comes
to discuss the materialistic jealousy of a small town...
it is a small town after all...
death knocks with all the nine cat’s lives just to prove
the point...
anyway, so i’m the head chef, and in panic
i search for a recipe... i’ve only got pork on the ready
in the recognisable frozen state...
but i also have shrimps... tiger prawns...
so i look through the usual suspects... thai green curry...
ah ****! no coconut milk!
what’s it going to be? prawn korma curry
(better mild than hot i say, with all this maple syrup
and honey colours about... talk about decay),
active ingredients? chilli powder (1/2 tsp), cinnamon
(1/2 tsp), turmeric (1/2 tsp) and ground almonds (2 tbsp),
there ready... looking suntanned my gorgeous twirls of seabed manure...
enough to spare my father making himself sandwiches (i always
disguised my “dyslexia” by associations... sandy witches...
the t broke the barriers and the floods entered)...
with toasted nannies / au pairs... relatives of some sort...
then onto writing my father’s invoices:
project plaistow hospital and some housing development near
the city airport... beckton we call it... backwards and forwards
stink crowned with drinkers regurgitating on the pave...
now that is a *******... recycling centre or horse manure?
then to tesco... for the nightcap...
oddly enough tesco has become a friend of mine once more,
i divorced the turkish shop, they added 10 pence to the polish beers,
now i’m on the sedative medication of this bottle bavaria beer
and whiskey... 1 quid for the former... 10 quid for the latter -
i’ve sold my soul! never mind...
then to the beacon that’s home... it’s night... it’s spooky...
it’s essex: that non-touristy place in england people with passports
never dare to visit, shambles.
well one thing came out true... none of the above though:
you ever consider the theory of the aeroplane syndrome in writers?
you know, like with rock stars you get the full package,
you get the aeroplane and the retrieved delay of the engine mushroom,
but with poetry (which is competing with music,
philosophers just wait in that queue for the cheese, wink, whine and wrinkle)
you only get the sound... that delayed mushroom...
you see the poet but never hear him...
it’s a typical delusion i’d call parallel or even adjacent to narcissism,
you walk down the street and the closest you come
to someone recognising you is a stranger uttering out: ‘hey richard!’
‘name’s matt mate.’
‘oh... sorry.’
it’s this aeroplane syndrome theory... it’s perfectly acceptable...
you have the image but don’t have the delayed sound...
you have the delayed sound... but you only get a photograph...
you have the english national health service mental health unit crisis...
and then you have people shunning intellectualism
trying to cure people by burning / not reading philosophical books;
the day ends with drinking and reading
an article about keith richard’s antics in the sunday times’ supplement
and the thought: well i gave her a stabbing chance
at feminism... she thought the active ingredient in anti-contraception
pills was placebo... she phoned and gave birth to me...
i said abort... you’re no post-teen mum at university, you won’t be...
******* was great but i’m not that much of a match from a cosmopolitan magazine quiz
(as duly taken on my way from st. pestersburg to moscow to see
metallica play), plus there are no roofing jobs in scotland...
the scots have mountains already... there’s no point building
scratched sky skylines with mountain ranges nearby...
so even though i went to a catholic school...
i did my first redemptive act by reading about gnostic heretics...
and not getting confirmed being the second...
i would have not taken first communion... but playing the xylophone
at the nativity play was too much fun...
plus it is the only salvador dali bit of the story...
after that you have st. sebastian...
plus you see where this is going... the greeks translated
the tetragrammaton into the gospels
of st. matthew, luke, mark and john...
and the romans were duped into the legality of
things... first name, second name, confirmation name...
surname.

i'm slowly figuring out how it works...
"content creators" always boast about their number
of members... but? rarely...
their viewership counts ever match
to their number of members...
rarely... they might have a membership
count of 200K but their videos probably
mean at about 70K... it's a game of give and take...

me? hmm... well... me...
    one website? 142 "members"...
         another website 181 "members"...
i'm always happy when i exceed my "membership":
when writing i always aim at that: exceeding...
with 181 "members" i managed to accumulate
a viewership of... nearing to 50,000...
not bad... that's how Pythagoras and Jesus achieved
their fame... start little: grow big...
out of? well... the natural worth of your worth...

i was just re-watching Jurassic Park today...
hold hold... in between cleaning the house...
hold hold...
how the **** is man certain of his own
psychology and socio-political dynamism
while at the same time so ******* certain
about the ontology of dinosaurs?!
fossils read: the T-Rex is movement sensitive?!
so... he... can't smell you?
let alone see you when you don't move?!
for ****'s sake! the Shakespeare of cinema!
Spielberg! *******!
              
i recently watched an advert: it's true:
you taste food by sniffing it...
i can quickly drink a diluted bottle of black cherry
squash... i taste nothing:
because i'm glug glug glug
drinking it... i refrain from drinking i start sniffing:
it's like my nose dives into the oesophagus
and retracts what i was just drinking:

you sure it wasn't some strong salt (alkaline)
or some... sugar? are acids sugars?!
well if there's a corrosive salt...
shouldn't the antonym be: a strong sugar?
aren't acids really strong sugars?
citric... yeah... they are...
strong acids are sugars as strong....
****... strong sugars are acids
and strong salts are alkaline...
                        BOZO WATER BOY...
d'uh!
        get out y'er spazz-mr.fantastic-face-douzoh...

how?! reading ******* fossils?!
FAKE NEWS... wait for the rumble... wait...
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.... FAKE HISTORY...
from what? reading fossils?! we knew how
dinosaurs behaved?
                             wow! oh! ah ha ha ha ha!
wow! the selling gimmick in full shwing!
boys! girls! we don't need the swings!
just listen to these ******* try to sell you toilet paper!
seriously...
and for a while i was like:
oh yes yes... that's how dinosaurs behaved...
from a flimsy ******* film with by the current
year: ever more ****** CGI...

                oh man... the velociraptor was a wolf
of its species... sure... now all the dinosaurs are birds...
morphed into birds... birds are small...
dinosaurs were big...
hmm... what's smaller than birds?
insects... ergo?
there must have been a kind of animal
akin to insects that lived prior to dinosaurs that
were also large... ******* gigantic
morphs of mosquitos...
if the dinosaurs adapted to become birds...
although: spies! spies i tell you!
spies! snakes and crocodiles!
rationality makes no sense given enough time...
best aim for ice-cream and brain-freeze...
seriously... **** it...
it's not like anyone is going to remember this
century like any other century given
the time expanse we've allowed ourselves to give!

what i am curious about though is...
DRAGONS...
right... it was inbuilt into our psyche to conjure
dragons: long before we unearthed
fossils of dinosaurs...
dragons... fire breathing creatures...
what killed the dinosaurs?
the day the moon went to sleep or was like:
**** it... have to keep the tides...
might as well get rid of these gigantic Goliath-Nimrods...
eh... i'm sure something stupider and more
entertaining will take their place...
BAM! fire! a meteor hit the earth: lizards breathing
fire... DRAGONS... how do we know this?
is this dream-talk? do people dream-up this
*******? me? i don't dream-up ****... i just sleep...
i admire the people who can fall asleep
in transit: on a bus or on a plane...
me? i'm bothered by the imaginary fidget-bugs
of keeping composure and pretending
to allocate time to my mind as i measure
mental minutes to actual mechanised minutes
of a clock... i always get it WONG... revelations
of lost vibrations... esp. in flight...

where do these anti-history i.e. pre-history stories
come from? fossils? ******* dinosaur fossils?!
we know how a certain type of dinosaur
behaved based on their ******* fossils?
wow! we should dig up Elizabeth Bathory
and Cleopatra and tell apart which bathed in milk
and which in ****** blood... i'd... FFFFFFucking love
to know how fossils tell which apart!

it's just ******* silly... i'm semi-drunk semi-sober
i'm bordering on arrogance: clearly mad...
because... this... gradual increment of a collective narrative
that was supposed to be soothing?
isn't soothing anymore...
                  i'm turning my mind toward solipsism...
not unlike an actual medical claim of autism:
but as a theoretical: only i exist...
whoever i encounter?
inauthenticity... actors...
                 people of shallow depth...
after all... what's the most popular artistic expression
in our society? isn't it, acting?! it's not painting...
it's not poetry... ergo?
     fake... fake...           oh: more fake.... fake...
actors have become brutal in the dealings of
every man in how he or she might interact with
fellow ever man or woman...
absolutely brutal: tyrannical!

that's how i saw it: the devil ascending: monarchy...
a god descending: tyranny...
there is a clarifying distinction that can be
summarised by the continued existence of England...
a country my heart is enthralled by...
and forever will be...

yeah... sure sure... looking up the gorilla's *******
to figure out our ontology... great!
it's not like we didn't have sages in the past...
it's beyond "god is dead": "jesus is dead":
it's already a common name in Spain...
hey-zeus... Darwinism won like the Copernican revolution
never envisioned it: after all...
Galileo robbed Copernicus of his discovery
because he had the telescope and became the martyr...

with one swift move: a god died and the gods
were reborn...
but jesus is dead too...
why? who's imitating him?
Darwinism teaches the universality of imitation-monkey!
imitation-lobster imitation-ant!
no? isn't that what the secular psychologists are
preaching?! "evolutionary psychologists"?!
evolutionary: partially... there's still no concensus
on "soul": i.e. sigma: the totality of what's being...
not ontology: i.e. being qua...
rather what's "motivating" being: what's WILL...
the ****** of existence per se...

no no... i can't think of existence as merely summarised
as simply: "experience"...
we don't know how dinosaurs behaved...
it's POP CULTURE ****...
we don't know! we will never know!
i hate living in this fantasy world...
really? a meteor killed them off?
a freak accident... but i thought the moon was
the shield against all other meteors...
and most meteors burn out when reaching our
atmosphere...

listen... the Biblical strand of the story is: POETIC...
it's simplified...
it's like... journalism on an everyday basis:
the difference being: it's repeated day in day out...
it's journalism of a Groundhog Day...
i admit: pretty **** ******...
but the secular aversion to this?
             mein gott... when it's right... akin to chemistry,
biology, physics, medicine and engineering...
fair enough... grounded in reality...
but when these disciplines becomes... "humanised"...
all hell breaks loose!
did i forget geology? oops...
            these are disciplines of the demigods!
they are not to be trivialised!
made into narratives! they are strict rubric sentiments
of complimenting chaos with man's ingenuity
of crafting a sense of order!

yeah: wow me... 181 "members" that morphs
into an audience of reaching 50,000...
unlike those video guys with 50,000 members
and an average of half of those members switching
off... with some roundabout clued-in *******
****-jobs...
the revised ingenuity of internet anonymity:
oh sure sure... i'll just buy a book and leave
a comment in the comment section
of the book's back pages that no one:
esp. the author is going to read...
                          title: make your own mind up!
i'm alone: you're alone, we're all alone
in this ****-wit buggery of all sorts!

We should get coffee unless you drink tea
I'll still order coffee--two sugars, you'll see.
If we go for coffee and you order tea,
We'll sip on our silence
It'll taste bitter but sweet.
If you order tea, is it hot or cold?
Raspberry or lemon? Am I coming off too bold?
I'll always drink coffee, I'll never get tea.
I crave the sensation and steaming caffeine.
When I order coffee and you sip your tea,
We'll talk about music, classic rock, maybe indie?
We won't sit too close, but we won't be too far.
I'll wonder if you're like me and hate going to the bar.
We should get coffee even if you drink tea,
I'll know you got raspberry because you'll kiss me.

I contemplate
I buy it on aromatic instinct
The fight emerges
Don't eat it!
You're not even hungry!
I sit in my head
While the words debate
The palate ultimately wins
My hands follow orders
The sweet melting chew
Savory icing
Made for my mouth
I close my eyes
Taste buds dance
Pure enjoyment
A moment has escaped me
In my candy land
Until it's gone
A guilty pleasure
Plagued stomach
Churning to
Disappointed intestines
An alien
They don't quite understand
As it has no nutrients or vitamins to absorb
Sending the lipids and sugars
Away to live as fat
Surrounding areas I dislike most
I look in the mirror
And I imagine where that regretful donut went.

© Jl 2016

This morning.
Cream.
Staring out that window.
Two sugars.
And You.
Smiling.
Why would you want yours any other way?

A widespread condition
related to nutrition
is lactose intolerance
that is in essence
the inability to digest and assimilate
the milk sugar-lactose-the substrate
that is acted upon by lactase-
the specific enzyme
over a period of time.
This may happen suddenly
and generally
at any age most unexpectedly.

Lactose intolerance
is caused by the absence
of the enzyme lactase
that breaks down lactose
to the simple sugars-
glucose and galactose.
The condition may be
secondary,  congenital,
or developmental.

Secondary lactose intolerance
invariably has its occurrence
related to a gastrointestinal infection
and its disappearance
is linked to the causative factor’s correction.
This type of intolerance-
(certainly a nuisance)
is reversible
if we are a bit careful.

Congenital lactose intolerance,
an inherited form of intolerance,
is a rare genetic  abnormality
that one can unearth
soon after an infant’s birth.
This need not cause any fear
as it lasts only half a year.

Developmental lactose intolerance
also known as primary  intolerance
is one wherein the enzyme synthesis
is progressively less
during childhood
and this persists into adulthood.

Gita Ashok
24/10/2011, 2 pm

broke my promise
the one I made
sitting there
on that park bench freezing
sharing coffee
conversation
naive and smiling
you looked at me
up from two weeks
of abuse
I could never understand you
how you laughed at my jokes
how you flashed eye contact
as you poured a second sugar
I could never understand you
it was cold
and you had a white scarf
tucked over your jacket
good god I loved
how you looked and
you told me how
proud you were
how we were in this together
and how
your acting was going well
I did my best to listen
I was in cold sweat
and shivering
and you talked on your
audition the next day
some part
some play
I can't remember
--good god why can't
I remember--
all I do is remember anymore
the way you would walk
the way you would talk
how you would just go
on and on
and the world would seem bright
again if
only for seconds
and somewhere
deep inside
under the cold
something frozen
would thaw in me
and I can still see that smile
why did I ever let you
leave that park bench
we could have sat there forever
hands folded and freezing
you in that white scarf
and that white smile
good god I loved
the way you looked

you talked and talked
marvelous things
you were going to be an actress
and I was going to stop drinking
we'd buy an apartment
on the east end of town
maybe
a house with a yard
maybe
a boat on the sea
you could paint that picture
so nice
and we'd sit there and imagine

oh
just to have you
on that park bench
again

i actually blame the outbreak of dementia in western society as sourced within a fat-free diet... you need to ingest fat! for ****'s sake! the brain is primarily fat! how can you just simply overdose on sugars?! sugar is like crack-******* compared to more complex sugars, i.e. carbohydrates! how can you do this to your own people?! smalec / lard... with pork trimmings and garlic (czosnek / ch)... how can western society "think" it has the upper-hand in the argument, when it pushes out fat-free yogurt?! the brain needs fat, it's fat... you need to ingest fat! point is: people in the west don't know how rare dementia is in "eastern" europe... avocado on toast? what's the problem with you? it's supposed to be guacamole! or at least eaten with a trickle of lemon juice with spicy food! retards... retards! you need to ingest fat... giving your body too much sugar makes you: either fat... or absolutely dumb... demented... dementia... eh, see the correlation? you need to ingest fat, simple as: your brain isn't a muscle, the argument: oh, we need to flex our cognitive muscle... what the **** is this? what sort of argument is this?! it's fat, it's probably once fat, twice jelly... in a city of about 60 thousand i've known only one example of alzheimer's... my auntie... sure, it's a dementia epidemic: because you're draining all the fat out of the foods that should have it!!! fat feeds the brain, since the brain is primarily fat... ****** dodo started speaking: woah abouh the omega-3 arguments? dunno... you catch the sardines and the mackerels. dunno(h)... i once knew this ****** that spent his days ripping newspapers... he could rip a newspaper better than i could cut it up with a pair of scissors... you know the scottish patent? you fold a piece of paper, lick the edge, then you fold it in the opposite fold, and lick the edge once more... and then the paper tears away as smoothly as melting butter on a hot piece of toast... but this ****** could tear pieces of newspaper in one smooth stroke... apparently typing these "offensive" words in a country of inbreds is "offensive"... i think i'll just call her: katherine die neu blut middleton... hardly a mary, but the blood matters, nonetheless.

8 6 9 4 1 7 3 2 5
5 3 *4 8 2 6 7 1 9
1 2 7 5 3 9 8 4 6
6 1 8 9 4 5 2 7 3
7 4 3 2 6 1 9 5 8
2 9 5 3 7 8 1 6 4
4 7 2 6 8 3 5 9 1
9 8 6 1 5 2 4 3 7
3 5 1 7 9 4 6 8 2

                              no. 8930
                                                      perhap­s i could have
done a more difficult puzzle, but then i was
relaxing, drinking ***...
             i made two mistakes...
as indicated, the first one in italics 4
  and the second in bold 1, which i implanted
as 9...
         even though a 9 was already in the sequence...
to correct myself i had to write out
the alphabet... even though i'm really terrible
at memorising the alphabet (hence i'm
a vocab millionaire),
                so to revise looking at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
i had to write the letters out...
thinking: imagine su doku using neun briefe,
like so:
(a) b (c) d (e) f (g) h (î) j (k) l (m) n (o) p (q) | r s t u v
                                                               ­           w       |x y z|
i'm terrible at remembering the alphabet sequence,
     the cut-off point comes along like this, in sing-along:
a b c d e f g, h i j, k, l m n en oh p... q r s; t u v...
                             blah....
but i thought: i'd love to write a letter imbued su doku...
just for the kicks...
thankfully, having written the alphabet out
                i managed to salvage and complete
the puzzle...
                                    *** and tunnel vision?
more like double vision;
                            and two cats distracting me,
                               pretending to fall asleep like a pair
of pensioners, sitting down.

The tub
The bin
The barrel
Whatever it may come in
I love Ice Cream till the very bottom
The richness of the sugars
The sensation on the lips
The chills down the throat
Everything blending together
We eat and eat until we reach the bottom
I love the Ice Cream that we eat
So much so fast
We never stop
Always looking for more
The richness of the sugars
The sensation to the lips
The chills down the throat
All blending together
Oh!
How I hope we find the mother load
All that we can eat
Until we can eat no more

Forgive, the two Joyeous Athletes Robust
And leave this Artist consigned and confessed
His Leaves have matured; But Duty he must
Remember the Gladness they each Possessed
Now I know why I never read his Book
Of I's and Me's so favoured by the Youth
His Grinning Plastic took long seen afoot
And his Spy's Kiss succeeded on its Cue
How much more will the Hell of Lover's Fair
Pour Molten Syrup to Souls, who, in spite
Swallow Stubborn Sugars labelled Beware
And the Green-Eyed Monster roared in Delight.
Now I know why your Picture flashed within
The Secret lies on your Pre-Olympic Ring.

Rainy summer day,
storming actually
The kind of day that made you want to crawl under the covers and forget yourself
drift off to sleep

Still
despite the navy skies
It was still summer

summer means peaches
big ones, bursting, dripping
honey nectar and sunshine

so we make a peach pie
cinammon and sugar sticking to our fingers like slow molasses
underscored by the constant drip, slip, flooding
arranging produce like composers

and we waited
we waited for the pie to bake
we waited for the crust to crisp, for the sugars to melt,
for the peaches to ripen, to brown and butter
we waited for the rain to stop
we waited for sunshine, for dry shoes, for beach days, powerlines
we waited for hours
we waited for months
we waited eighteen years
we sat, and we stood, and we waited.

We sat in front of the oven
eyes pressed against the window
we waited
watched the sugars bubble, the scented cloves
we were two years old and one hundred at the same time
we waited for the kind of lives that we saw in movies
the kinds of dreams you wanted so bad it hurt
we waited with stomachs churning
wasting our youth, one rainy afternoon at a time
waiting for life to begin

Rainy summer day,
storming actually
The kind of day that made you want to crawl under the covers and forget yourself
forget about the peaches
forget about summer, about friends,
about anyone and anything
drift off to sleep

.https://tinyurl.com/yd8kxt9s: and this was at a time when i actually cared what girls thought... as any chubby kid prior to the age mid 16... cared so much... like any boy... then the backfire... so i thought: well... i know of a girl that won't back down, Sophia... and she certainly didn't teach me to regurgitate logic like a sophist might... new experience... and? ever since? so date with Jack was ever the same... i really used to care what girls thought... but... eh... these days? i care whether the bottom of the bottle looks like a telescope, or a mirage of a kaleidoscope... guess all the shame went out the window... selfish... selfish... hmm... then i guess all the monks are paying dues for that kind of existential hostage heist of - otherwise unwanted enlarged *****-loads of heart, mind, hope... my kind of poker... but thank god i don't that the sort of egoism of a ***** donor, like i'm some prime material for cloning... phew!

i listen to these commentary videos on politics,
and then... i reach a saturation
point... oi! Joe! Joe! where you goin'?
to the jazz club? me come with...
   i've had enough... i get enough news
when i visit my grandparents with my
grandmother watching more
news than her age-restricted bracket
of Mexican or Turkish telenovelas...
does my nuts in!
   i'd rather watch a ******* telenovela
than the corporate news...
at least i'd be watching someone akin
to tuba büyüküstün
   (**** me, they went wild on
the diacritical marks there... didn't
they? do they match up to
the scalpel of syllables within the word?) -
hey! granny! put that **** back on,
she's showing a healthy cut of
thighs and the upper legs,
cut, right, above the knee!
    i too miss the internet...
like it was... in 2007 through to
2000 &... 17?
      well sure as **** no **** Sherlock
it wasn't 2016...
           i appreciate the work
of the counter-media...
   but after a while...
  i get bloated...
   too much information...
       and nothing of the sort i can
speak to people about within
or outside age bracket within this
restricted space...
   so i fill up the tank, realizing
it all ends with: oh, right...
the same ******* tomorrow?
    and then i desperately try to find new
music... musing over a sudoku puzzle...
taking another painkiller swig of
bourbon saying to myself:
isn't this, just the most bountiful night
filled with the oddest beauties
encapsulated most by the shadow
on the face of the moon?
      as ever, my number one motto:
stay low, steer the undercurrent -
         seek no exposure...
               enjoy the drinking,
but esp. enjoy the music...
                     but **** me...
   i miss 2004... or was it 2005?
whichever year it was...
i remember having a race with this
guy on a Tour de France type of bike...
and i was mulling this thick-tier
mountain bike from
Bałtów to Ostrowiec Św. -
   but i still remember my 50+km leisure
route...
   there are only two ways to lose
weight without having problems
of excess skin hanging like punctured
fat balloons...
  cycling... or swimming...
   nope... you go to the gym to lose
that weight? you'll be in need of
plastic surgery...
              **** the diet...
coffee is not coffee if you don't drink it
with either full-fat milk or cream...
i've seen what a coffee with skimmed
milk looks like...
looked at a receptionist's cuppa in
the local g.p. surgery...
  diluted mud-water...
                 same argument with low
fat yogurt: instant diabetes -
you, need, fat...
                    you can't fake fat with
excess sugars...
  plus... the texture?
        orangutan snot probably tastes
better...
      no... gym is a bad idea
for losing weight...
had a "friend" (fwend) who thought
it was worthwhile...
guess now he can test what
a tattoo looks like in old age...
   skin as elastic as a ******* parachute...
running? bad for the knees...
plus? 50+km on a bike?
think of the scenery!
                 - and you require but only
afternoon session when the heat's off...
roughly 2 hours...
sure... after the weight is gone...
**** that gym membership...
   but?
           not prior...
              you lose weight by concentrating
on a calorie equilibrium
with either your legs...
or your torso...
but let's face it...
i didn't swim much...
   so basically your legs... on a bicycle...
what was that route i loved so much...
ah...
the 754...
       through various names country
roads... heading back on Iłżecka
  (a road's name borrowed from
the town of Iłża - en route to Warsaw -
a medieval road -
now passed on route no. 9) -
more fun than pretending to
be a tourist in central London...
  bicycle... late afternoon...
the road...
                 and the endless
fried pine patches of forest...
there's nothing about home as
the perfumes of the land...
however grotesque -
which does include farm animal
manure...
  but **** me...
   Paris perfumeries can hide,
shy... from their poignant scents...
farm animal manure
and hay...
   but later afternoon pine...
and the wheat fields...
and the grass...
               come to think of it...
i never realized that i cycled into
a completely different county...
           like me going from Essex
through to Kent...
               fun as ****...
plus i sometimes stopped at this
old woman's hut...
           and bought some goat's milk.

I was the two lumps of
                     sugar

in her morning coffee,
    her lips moist..

Yet afterwards she
             was always tired.

                        Go figure.

What do you want?
I weighted your stare.
There’s no meat on the bones. You’re gonna have to pray.
I given in; I’m unable to moves forward.
Supply me air, tease no longer.
Another man mimic me.  Yellow highlighted performances.
Picture, pictures, picture
God, what have I done?
You stop, three silent moments.  Reload.
More pictures, even more, her without me.
This hurts. I cry.
She’s gorgeous, her eyes, her smiles, her hairs; beautiful, lovely beyond compare, her nails on hips, impressive.   Attitude, coach purse and boots,
too far gone, a glimpse.  Guns to roses
You have destroyed me, gram of sugars and Popsicle sticks on the living room’s floor.
What do you want, that dog no Hunt.
Pictures, pictures some pictures of you.
Season changes, people changes,
remove your hands from her view or leave me be.

.Roger Moore!
  what? Roger Moore!
the definite Mishter Bond...
yeah yeah...
Sean Connery -
the, "original"....
  but Roger Moore had
Duran Duran to back him up!

First Name: Matthew
Surname: Elert
Address 1: 294 Havering Road
Address 2 (Rise Park) /  left blank
Town / City: Romford
Postcode: RM1 4TH
Tel: (+44) 01708 766 994
Email: m.k.elert@gmail.com
Date of Birth: 15      05       1985
Gender: Male.

Is this the first time you have bought Henry Westons Vintage cider?
No.

Where did you buy this bottle of Henry Westons Vintage cider?
Other.

Where do you do your main shop?
CO-OP on days when Russian Standard is on offer, given that CO-OP has your cider on a constant 3 for £5 all the time, otherwise Tesco, 15 minute walk, but still CO-OP for your cider.

In a few words, what made you buy Henry Westons Vintage?
I feigned a desire to drink more Magners, or for what matter the Swedish ciders (Kopparberg, Rekorderlig, etc.) - it's actually genius how your cider, standing at a whopping 8.2% alcohol volume... can't be branded an alcoholic's wet-dream like Carlsberg's Export most assuredly could. What a pristine balance of combating the sugars, that, other ciders, don't allow... I mean, at surfacing just shy of 5% in the Swedish examples? Near suffocating over-sweetness, taking a dog for a walk that was adamant on pulling the leash and hanging itself in the horizontal canvas would be more enjoyable than, walking with a bottle of those ciders... not enough alcohol to equilobrate the sweetness of a cider, per se... simply perfecto! I've already made the same point  on https://tinyurl.com/y7eaweeg... so, suma summarum: nothing, exactly made me buy the cider, originally, perhaps the logo, or some plain boredom from the Magners' and Swedish standards... but on 2nd purchase? The ****** quality, that simply transcends this question, in terms of advertisement "concerns"; p.s. you don't need to expand into pear cider. Any chance of hearing some Sonny Clark or Herbie Hancock at the festival? What about Joshua Redman?

you never know...
i might have a chance of visiting America...
if i win the Westons' Cider lucky draw...
and head over to the New Orleans' Jazz festival...
i like jazz...
   more than classical music...
well... within the reasonable constraints
of ******* on Handel's conductor's wand...

    smoochy smoochy...
   a helium balloon...
   dipped in either honey
or vanilla extract...
        chasing it...
     while a baby in a tram,
by accident,
                       releases it.

death does bind and make some of keeping
kind (that queens and  kings would like to
usher in like spare change when buying ivory)...
seem majestic...
    we alter what that reality
states... paupers' hands and
pauper's mouths...
        dare i feel sly or in need
for the armour of fear, at
a seeing a feeding ground?
is that: dare i? or must i?
     i nevffer heard of a greek
that ate-himself to invert
the metaphor of what poetics had to offer
in the first place...
          how dear the price...
and how dire the lion imitating a fox
on cold and wet outer-suburbia streets
of essex... should a machiavelli
  prance about, like some stańczyk,
for a need of a choir of woe...
and oh the sadness: how it echoes!
        in one grant on the crucifix:
for a sponge-soaked grasp of wine refused...
this be the deity?!
          you refuse wine on the cross -
is that a surrender of honour?
            when you're already on it, why should it
matter?
     so give me unto their religiosity,
but for god's sake leave me alone and have a drink,
what's so honest that it needs to be said?
  and what wasn't said in the last three decades of
of the 20th century?
               i bow, i quasi-dance and play the stańczyk
role, like someone about to embark on
the enfant terrible role...
           as an empty stomach would make you feel
to have a "need" to write something...
               i'm thinking cheese,
and parisian dough baked into a croissant...
and goo...
    the motto stands: the hungry man can think
of nothing but food...
             and if you're lucky enough
your temptations range into the dialect of
******...
                 i'm just thinking of king crimson
and the eton mess...
     and why you'd see fashion models drop in
2 seconds if they had my diet of *****,
given their champagne ingestion...
   i used to do bulimia... but it wasn't about laxatives...
two things down my throat: ugh!
that's the right concept, isn't it? like **** stars
talking about training their **** like any
other muscles for depicting the fetish?
    same as the oesophagus,
   you want to really do bulimia? *******
down your throat... it's like ****,
but something different at the same time...
    like ancient romans used to do it...
i bow... and hope some are eager to continue down
this vein of "thought", or how
                       θ   can equal        φ,
and the door finally opens, and chimeras as released.
i swear to the hebrew god:
  ******* down the throat, no laxatives,
it's what undid the citizens of Pompeii -
fake eating, simply fake the impulse to eat,
then eat.... and regurgitate it back up...
like this theory i had today:
could lactose be categorised as an alkaline sugar?
well... fructose and all the other sugars seem
to be acidic, since they rot teeth... i'm starting to
think the sugar in milk is alkaline...
           the sugar in yogurt is alkaline (naturally),
i don't know why but i'm starting to think
there is a pH spectrum of sugar,
       one side being acidic, and one side being alkaline...
i drink milk in the morning and think
about eating ice-cream (but never do)...
              lactose is categorised as a sugar,
so where's the kantian categorical imperative
on that?                 it has to originate
with a concept that sugar has to have
an acidic and an alkaline spectrum...
               what with lactose akin to haemoglobin
and the Fe+2 centre... then lactose must have
a Ca centre... calcium...
                   i don't have the time to write
the concrete Ca+2 or -2 or whatever it is that couples
this substance... it's an alkaline sugar,
it's not an acidic sugar... it's apparently the thing
that makes strong bones...
i drink it and think of eating ice-cream,
i sometimes had a breakfast of black coffee
a spoonful of sugar and a spoonful of melted butter.

You are tea,
serene in your surroundings.

                                                  ­                                                         I am coffee,
                                                         ­                        attention always bounding.

Your colour a milkish pale,
creamy optimism.

                                                      ­                                           I am taken black,
                                                          ­                                           bitter cynicism.

Two sugars,
to match your disposition.

                                                   ­                                                      None for me,
                                                             ­             I'll maintain my grim affliction.


                                               We differ so much,
                                                     it's obscene.
                                                  
                                                   But in the end
                                               we're both caffeine.

Lady Winter

I.
When surly Winter sighs, her icy breath
Makes adults think of coming death,
Makes children think of falling snow,
Ice skates and sleds and away they go....

II.
Alone among her Sisters, Winter holds such power
To stop the World, to drift in Time, if only for her hour.
She puts the trees and fields to sleep,
Then covers lakes and land 'neath sheets,
And though she tucks them into bed,
Their sleeping form is of the dead.

III.
This Lady White whose frigid face
Turns from the sun with chilly grace
Has for herself a single duty:
The world to rest in icy beauty.
In the North, where'er she goes,
She dresses lands with icy snows.
In gowns of ermine stand the trees
White trains of down lie at their lees.
She sets the plain with crystal lakes,
And sugars hills with frosted flakes.
Where ever she in beauty goes,
The icy Queen her magic sows.

IV.
Strange sister of four Seasons,
Her face, at first, seems set in Death,
But we who walk out on her icy grounds,
Traverse a frozen pond or wander rounds
Deep into her forests fast asleep, know well,
We who stop to listen and to look can tell,
Life's certitude awaits the end of chilly Winter's icy fling.
(Congregation: "Even so come quickly, Lady Spring!")

Two linked sugars
make up a disaccharide.
And that’s what we are-
simple, plain table sugar
dully passed back and forth
to sweeten our taste.
Sometimes I'll accidentally
switch the shakers for breakfast,
hand you the salt
just to change up the spice.
And sometimes I regret
the bitter words
you exchange in return
for breaking the boring
status quo.