or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.

I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages.

I am always sat on my empty bookself.
A one of a kind, first edition, tragedy.
My authors working on projects much more important than I.

Chapter 1:
summarises the bliss of fresh flesh, unmarked, unripped, ungrammatical because nothing ever mattered.

By my final chapter I had lost my friends, abandoning all hope I lost everything, as my protagonist writhes in agony from heartbreaks that are as fresh as when they began.

On my bookself, dust collects by my blurb (which is only half unwritten), I cannot move though my spine is unbroken.
Half of my contents, speak of brighter times.
Times of infactuations appearing in spring.
Times where playing in the streets was an everyday thing.
Times of scraped knees, bruised arms and hair which was once neatly plaited turned into tendrils spiraling out of control.
Times of being called in for tea.
Being told to remember suncream otherwise your baby doll face will turn to a shrimp.
Times where the nettles sting would be sweeter than the honey of a bee.

As every day closes each chapter, I know they will continue while I stay stuck in my days. Just a scap of literature upon a shelf with no map nor compass. I sit on my shelf and come 5:43 every evening, I watch. The streetlights flicker on and illuminate brighter every second.
I remember.

A happier time.

Before I was written.

Before my pages became tattered and torn.

Once again, I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages

once bitten, twice shy.
makes perfect sense
but i'm pressing the teethmarks
she left on my chest
and i've missed this tender aching.
i've missed the misery that
summarises me when we're apart.
infatuated.
cross my masticated beating heart
stick a needle in my eye
once bitten, twice shy
i'll try to fall in love once
before i die.

a poem by
                                                            Alic­e Nemo
entitled:
                        (a) poem that summarises much
               of walt whitman
without all the airy-fairy
                                 angst-ridden waffle (2004,
poetry magazine
                                            Monkey Kettle).

under copyright restrictions you'd have to read the printed
version - still the pretentious "published" writers
waving paper about as a mark of superiority?
look, with the internet publishing Ferrari
you can wave published paper works a bit like a fiat currency,
which is the current currency -  i can do the same with
a poetry book, a paperback edition, a bit like
Max Keiser explaining the concept to Russell
Brand ripping up a twenty quid bill...
i could do likewise with some pretentious ***
and his published book of prose and just tell him:
i don't believe in it, not a single word of it,
i'm more worried about the one book, two book
dilemma coming from a simple heresy in
the old testament done by Malachi confused
about fractions, incorporating some sort of
reincarnation process to the 1 over 1 rule of mono.

but i have to apologise to        
                                                  Ms. Nemo,
    whitman's
joke concerning his
                             poetry was unearthed
  this year...
                    the rediscovered advice
        to                                                  Amer­ica's men:
                       meat, beards
                           and               not too much ***.

let me reiterate what fiat currency gave us,
fiat literature... America's got talent children's books,
fiat currency undermined literature by creating
fiat literature - both paper, easier for any idiot
to understand - might as well have a currency where
you post checks using the paper aeroplane postman
of your right hand - because to what will you now
apply the concept of money to? gold is tacky,
a rich man with gold is tacky, a gypsy, or platinum,
a double gypsy, and he's a total gimp
with a gold plated Rolls Royce, sending a fleet
or like-for-like rides to roll in London, but only
around Knightsbridge... and sometimes down to
the shady parts of London like Edgware Road -
you know, where the real London ganstas hang out.

god, i'm                     never going to
                      cite the whitman              answer now,
revealing                   the man behind
                                                 others'      in­terpretation
as Ms. Nemo suggested:
                                     airy-fairy angst-riddle
              waffle...
was that really a
                                           Smiths' song
from the album
                                     god save the queer?                  
                                       ­                   old school quiz:
old man the quasi-******,
                                       talked like a castrato
sung like a baritone...                                 it
                                                            was perplexing...
but apparently when
                                                not singing
                            he used a testicular
****** that squeezed               the *****,
                                                        ma­king him talk
like a pre-pubescent boy  
                                                          w­alking on tiptoe.
yeah...    47,000 word treatise
                                                    autu­mn 1858
  a mythological
                                   New York newspaper (myth-
i.e. long ago defunct),
                                                    mai­n points:
- beards are great sanitary
                              protection                  to the throat,
- too much repetition
                                 with ***         =        weedy children
- a healthy manly virility seems
                                                     to be
                                                                ­    almost lost -
   seems to have given place to a morbid,
                                               almost insane,
   pursuit of women,
      especially of                the lowest ranges
                                                                ­             of them;
      
(the ******* contract = no chase, but of course!)

     surely the personae of the odes to Lincoln
     a decent enough act,
     yet behind the man... words as those above.

seven shades of **** and puke
stuck to the soles of my shoes,
eight days straight drunk before noon.
new flat, new friends,
all blowing smoke and jostling me
through musky basement staircases
into dismal dust filled rooms.
where you're waiting for me with
this heavy fog that clogs my pours and follicles
making me feel dumb and unclean.
making my words wet and sticky,
they cling to life unyielding,
falling at my feet, falling short of expressing
their own inadequacy.
and i shuffle uncomfortably around
in the puddle of my words. they
stick to the soles of my shoes like puke,
and the stench summarises me perfectly.

I know of girls

Who are beautiful by themselves, who don't need a boy to tell them or a friend.
They are open, focussed and know how to distinguish.
They  are also  kind and hard working,  full of value, and  don't look down at others.
These Ladys  don't like to depend , are honourable and with that are humble.

I also know of girls

Who are drunk of themselves,
Too proud  to be kind
Who don't support others
Full or empty headed,  they all lack empathy
They divide our society into cast ,
And are real épidémies
They are pit for men
None can advise you to be friend with

It's same for Men ,
One can speak of a Curse to mankind Relating to them.

A  popular Prayer could be "God free us from this ramping diseases who took flesh to live among us "

But that's not what the Bible teaches Us Christians when she speaks of love , She says        
" Do what you want that should be done to you, that summarises the law and the Prophets "
"Love even when there is hatred " otherwise ;  In what are you different from the Others

Regarding These I beg God to forgive me for the Wicked words I used to describe Some of us .
Instead, I should pray For Them , even if  I am a victim

I SHOULD LET LOVE LEAD

kiełbasa - or, alt. kieł - basa - king Vasa of Sweden (Gustav the First), the base of, i.e. based on a canine (kieł); including a rolling pin and a mile of intestines to shove the mince in and later eat.

reading through the *style magazine...
what else, a count von Bismarck,
Eton connections - poor schmuck
ought to eat a mouthful of cinnamon
peppered with nail clippings -
it's not jealousy as ****, just a sickly Loki
stare at it all - perfect skin, perfect abs,
10 dates a week, whimsical musing
and other attention deficits - i'm just here
to ask about the code of procedures
on the national health service (n.h.s.),
informer
you no say daddy me snow me-a gon' blame
i lick he *** *** down
'tective man they say, say daddy me snow
me stab someone down the lane
i lick he *** *** down
days long before Eminem and not quiet
vanilla ice ice baby...
the hippocratic oath shattered on me,
i guess i played the madness game to free myself
from defamation, self-preservation of
the person accused - god, what a parasite i've become,
i never used to obsess, but i've turned into my enemy,
it takes more calories to eat a second of
a thought about that than it would take
drinking a sharpshooter whiskey mix -
so here i am, with my Hölderlin heart -
stone cold stone mad - passive-aggressive infatuated
with Radiohead's kid A - playback from
the heyday of the prog-rock zenith reminded, of;
mind you, i was never into playing solo tennis
against a brick wall with the standard:

violets in may
or should i say
i love the whole affair
of being the spare
in her game of panicky chess

                                         yep, you guessed it, rhyming,
                                         Tenacious D's one note song
                                         summarises what i can't
                                         be bothered to explain
                                         or defend.

you read some of the stories found within,
and you sorta find enough
libido in watching charity firm adverts,
and imagining yourself playing
ping-pong as a transvesite,
god, so many hopefuls from the **** dimension,
i really came far too late to
watch the fireworks of the decaying
british empire,
  the high tide came when i
watched oi oi tony braile
give back hong kong,
in that year, that was, what year
was is? ah yes, 1997.
i'm just adding salt to the wound,
and it's not exactly a pretty sight,
i'm not a pakistani in Rotherham...
i'm getting muddled in some
colonial past that i do niot belong to,
as i once said p.c.s.d.:
  post-traumatic and post-colonial
can cleave to the dsm like leeches...:
oh don't send the ego theory to do your
***** work, some time in the future
you might have to answer with: i said
this, i said that, i didn't say either...
send in the parasites...
they're automaton bound,
    senses are their gravity, they drop
to the ground like -
only the english are prone to the care
of being lonely...
    i guess this is where solipsism comes in
and states a crowd-pleasing stage-fright:
  and if that didn't make me happy,
i don't know what would... having children?
the last time i said i was lonley i
was probably laughing...
        that there is a date culture i find like
a gorilla finding a huh or question
mark away from an ooh!
  so in between the history of the big bang,
and the dinosaurs,
   and how we began as furr coats...
i find it strange that the only complicated
bit about striving to define the origin of
thought is to call all our contemporaries
stupid... must be an english phenomenon...
no one has the necessary glue to put the two together
and make them lodge into place like lego...
i didn't say it's wrong,
       i can count,
   but i just think the timescale is too grand,
  too big, almost vacuum prone with regards to
what's happening right now, something akin
to love, something akin to fermenting the emotion
jealousy rather than needing a care for beer...
    just read the sunday time style magazine...
it's the type of publication that makes me to never
want to own a yacht... or a rent boy...
                  the "problems" they have in there
will always make me want to be a plumber....
                 it's that time when the theory concening
ego has problems, and yes, it's not past
experiences and memories, but something akin
to limbs, and precisely: an outlet, akin to
newspaper print space...
   the problems they have in there...
i'm actually unable to use them for ha has or for
tears...
     all i know is that the thinking man's burnt
toast is george soros...
          and how the idea of fame is a helium
balloon... or generally being bloated...
  then i'd tell you that...
    but what i'll probably tell you is that
solipsism is a placebo membrane, a vague
architectural escapade...
   i mean it's a placebo structure,
   because it can never be true to the extent that
you might think you're seeing ghosts
of people, rather than grey matter,
or debased people, abandoned people,
people given a case of being trampled by a
stampede, and how being part of a 7 billion
strong-crowd, could never ever make you feel
proud?
       or at least the darwinists are telling us:
be proud... you're a 0.0000000001 of the 1...
      a giga form of negation?
   how many mirrors is that, that combine to create
the altar of being sacrificed on the basis
of microscope or a telescope...
  if ever there was an instrument to peer into
the giga-reality, i'd know to simply call it:
my life...
    and when science doesn't venture,
individuals are established in it, to stress: thus.
              it's when i didn't feel the vogue
of objecitivity like a Gucci stress,
that i started to write something akin to poetry...
   i made language systematic: my downfall,
moving away from what might be deemed
sympathy-prone and whimp exploitative...
          once more: chance prone and thus
only chance exploitative...
            just read the synday times style magazine...
the problems contained therein are beyond
crass... they're actually authentic...
          which clearly summarises my acquisition
of the english language,
             there's no sight of decay for miles and decades
about...
           it already happened...
whenever i look at the basic unit of this decaying
civilisation i know it's a civilisation
   investing more into a dictionary of acronyms,
there must be a word akin to
    the thesaurus to note down all the acronyms...
and when they started to celebrate emoticons i
was done... i dare to call a need for an alternative thesaurus...
    something akin to an acronymous,
with a :) included...
      coin of phrase sure, a cheap version
of othewise desinging a toothbrush or a light-bulb...
        but it's there...
                              and with so many rigid intellectuals
talking darwinism, and how we evolved,
and bringing dinosaurs into it...
    that just kills off history...
   alongside carpe diem mentality and praxis...
              it also means that the current language used
by modern speakers is like: i'm talking orthodox,
those teens are talking protestant talk...
     i do acknowledge that its a defence mechanism
against paedophiles, acronyms and all...
     but it's when they forget that that wall is not real
and some will be naive to import a kiddy-fiddler,
and all acronyms go to ****...
           i'm still russian orthodox and they're still
hot-head protesants, and i don't know what they're
talking about...
     then again: that's a good thing,
i get to keep a tradition, they get to keep
     walking down a street...
          was it always: speak slang to be clued in?
don't know how Sherlock are you?
              it's only that you read these newspapers
and the parents are trying to understand the language...
    i'd sooner write a modern thesaurus than
keep with the trends...
     an acronymous would be much, much appreciated...
u! s! a!
         uniform statements made apprehensive...
given that it's also consistent with of;
i.e. relating to the interjection of the word made,
as sometimes happens with acronyms being
pure acronyms, and omitting conjunctions,
e.g. u.s.a.: unites states (of) america.
   na na... **** me... just read the problems inscribed
in the sunday times style magazine...
you really start to wonder why the pillar
of western culture is based upon press freedom...
or why journalism gets all the perks of levitating toward
starting wars...
               why would i want press freedom, now?
   i'm sure i could have lived an ample life
under Saddam Hussein...
   don't know why i thought that: just feel like making
a gamble...
    reading the times gives me no impetus
to protect the privilege of being a journalist...
    we already did away with aristocracy...
  they're next?
                   i feel no inclination to uphold the principle
of press freedom, when press freedom is nothing
more than the basis of having a twitter account
these days; well, the most "powerful" man in the world
uses it... why would i trust a parasite of the state,
that every newspaper is? newspapers are necessary
parasites of the state... they feed of the politics,
they feed off the arts culture...
             it's nice to see how people waged wars
for the sake of parasitic intricacies that newspapers are;
shadow people, and no clear *******
of propagandist mechanisation;
   and very odd interests, very much bound to
familial placebos of the already happening
      pathology where money is concerned, as journalism
goes: monopolising on a lease, of being
invited for lunch... by some resautrant critic.

I'll look into the future
the past I can't change
the prologue
I had written long ago
is now but sand washed
from the languishing shore
into the tumultuous  sea of time

(now the interregnum)

all that which
had gone before
I count as folly
and trivia-
love and hate
doubts and fears
the questioning
the angst
that wouldn't abate
the right direction
I missed
I didn't know
where to go--

( realisation--
  through pain
and tears
I stepped into
  a new long-awaited morrow)

I've since outgrown
the weeds--
in the field
of experience
a new life
I've assumed

though I'm
still a bud
but I know
someday
this would grow
silently flower
and in the gentle breeze
steadily it would blow-

the essence
that life must be
should appear
in the final chapter
the epilogue
that summarises all--

what I would be
is not for others to see
for in this simple corner
at the brink of time
only I
and I alone
could measure
what I truly am
have I lived?
have I betrayed myself?
what do I stand for?
do I sell myself short?
what else do I have to deplore?

from the epilogue
I'll return to the present
bridle in the prologue
a new map
I would draw
where road-blocks
are absent
and forward
I'll walk
engaging
in a dialogue
of my own
every step ahead
on my planning board
I'll highlight
with a strong chalk--

salvation
there's not
but only
within the spot
where my heart and mind
intersect
blend
mutually support

where the rough edges
have been shorn
and a fertile interior
has been born--

where thoughts and feelings
are synchronised
like an orchestra
where all sounds of instruments
are in rapport and tunefully harmonised--

the prologue
must end
in the epilogue

to the sky
at night
I would look
even in the faintest light
as the hours creep by
silently and unnoticed

I would no longer
have tears and know not
how to sigh or cry
as to all that's gone before
I would happily bid goodbye--

in that somewhere
of time
which would be
hidden from my eye
that moment
I would welcome
and embrace
as what has been
predestined
in the mysterious scheme
willingly I would accept

I have lived well
(regret I have none)
my earthly task
has been done
a wondrous experience
it would be to die
into a new beginning
I'm returning home
which was my prologue
long have I travelled
and far did I roam

it's the same gate
that did usher me in
at the very start
now it welcomes me
to pass through
in fullness of heart--

without
the prologue
there would be
no epilogue

nothing that does exist
in life and time
is ever lost--
the prologue
and epilogue
are inter-locked
they leave each other not--

the river flows
into the sea
the waters
become one
not a drop
is not absorbed

life is a mystery
relived
somewhere
beyond the claim
of time
it magnifies
it never dies--

when tired eyes
wake from sleep
from the night before
the awakened
will be greeted
with a bright light at dawn
and all joys
shall be theirs
to eternally keep.

I know of girls

Who are beautiful by themselves, who don't need a boy to tell them or a friend.
They are open, focussed and know how to distinguish.
They  are also  kind and hard working,  full of value, and  don't look down at others.
These Ladys  don't like to depend , are honourable and with that are humble.

I also know of girls

Who are drunk of themselves,
Too proud  to be kind
Who don't support others
Full or empty headed,  they all lack empathy
They divide our society into cast ,
And are real épidémies
They are pit for men
None can advise you to be friend with

It's same for Men ,
One can speak of a Curse to mankind Relating to them.

A  popular Prayer could be "God free us from this ramping diseases who took flesh to live among us "

But that's not what the Bible teaches Us Christians when she speaks of love , She says        
" Do what you want that should be done to you, that summarises the law and the Prophets "
"Love even when there is hatred " otherwise ;  In what are you different from the Others

Regarding These I beg God to forgive me for the Wicked words I used to describe Some of us .
Instead, I should pray For Them , even if  I am a victim

I SHOULD LET LOVE LEAD

oh right...
within the confines of
deus ex machina:
i don't believe in god
because god
censored me: "censored"...
and deleted my poems
so...
well: god is my number
one fan...
so he keeps the succulent
worded juices
for himself
and equipped
with the knowledge of AI
summarises me:
"censors" me...
           it shouldn't be so difficult
but my vanity probes me
in a direction: otherwise:
o.k.
it will take time:
getting used to
a god being reciprocative.
alligned seriousness
without plumbing or
carpentry
just this Hades and its cerberus;
with daughter:
Roman... "borrowed":
archetypical: SPHINX.

A life is a theme
that summarises
crystallises
what you are
the substance
the essence
the core
of your being entire
minus the trivia--

the waste
and spoilage
of millions
of hours
have consumed
the best
they fall
they despair
fade away
with scar-

all that we are
is self-made
self-directed

how far
we go
lies within
not dictated
by any fateful star-

we are each
a Ulysses
a silent
unknown
hero
only if
we dare
to be
what we are.