My chicken without sweetcorn pie
How did it come to this?
Many years we've turned a blind eye
Lived in ignorant bliss

Sometimes I thought "we think too much"
Other times not enough
Now I know we do think too much,
'Cause thinking's not enough

Some things are sent here to try us
That's all they're sent to do,
Some things are sent here to test us
Keep testing we'll push through

We've been through life without a care...
Maybe one too many,
Cold bitter nights with a chilly air
Life can't always be sunny

But don't you worry that sun will shine
Shine down on me and you
Believe;  we're going to be just fine
We're fighters we'll push through

You and me, two peas in a pod
Life long friends - that much is true,
And together we'll beat all odds
Even when hard - this we'll prove

So promise me you won't give up
I'll promise the same to you
And sure enough we'll find our luck
Happy ending's WILL shine through!

.i never thought of it like that, until today... "keeping" a "pet" fox is really ecological... huh? yeah, really ecological... you don't need a compost heap... apparently foxes are more related to canines than vermin... omnivores... they'll eat meat, but they'll also eat rice soaked in meat juices, with carrots or sweetcorn... ecological pets... come to think of it, my household barely throws anything away... thanks to Oliver Brady... god... those saddened eyes of the wild, pleading, begging... how could i refuse?

i really hate talking
at people, rather than
talking to people...

i should know...
back in merry old England,
i was misdiagnosed
with a mental
illness...
   schizophrenia...

i guess, because,
being bilingual is a case
for a disability if
i don't have an Indian
accent...

which means
all of the Scots are deranged
lunatics...

i play along,
like the good puppy...
why?
i like the drugs...
AMITRYPTALINE...
NAPROXEN...
i know the little book
of prescription says:
DO NOT TAKE
WITH ALCOHOL...

but i, i do...
come to think of it...
leave enough pause...
and you can stop
the air-quote "                 ",
you really can...
just pause long enough
to let the ridicule sink in...

drugged up in England,
because i'm not either
English, or a Somali...
but hell:
             i have the most perfect
soundtrack song...
to feel 1960s groovy...

   puscifer's undertaker
   (renholder mix)....

   so as i listen to these to-and-for
youtube videos,
the internet drama...
that seriously should have
stayed locked down in a high school
playground with a few
punches being thrown...

what a ******* headache...
when will someone join me
in saying: CAN YOU PLEASE STOP?!

that's when i start thinking
about the safety of professions...
truck driver, garbage collector,
plumber, plumber...
at least he gets a ******* ***** theme...

oh i've been cringed with
the mentally ill label...
love it... the drugs are great,
have myself a little cocktail with
the *****, and sleep for over 10 hours...

but it's England...
why am i no surprised?!
  tell me?
           my neighbor thinks it's his
rule of thumb, rather than law,
to tell me what i can & can't do on
my private property?
  
           Bukowski was right:
war, war all the time...
i remember my youthful self...
a boy who believed in love...
       and he once loved..
        
the same boy that decided:
**** it... i'm not here to be accused of
****...
  i'll go to the prostitutes...
i can only be accused of
a non-payment...
              
how did i end up going to that
   18 year old party with only girls
suckling at a male presence like
an octopus about to feed?
  
don't ask: i don't know...

                as that never aging quote
goes:
   the lunatics will lead the blind...
the lunatics... will... lead... the blind...
on the funny side of things...

i'm pretty sure you can only
go "mad" once...
and since the authorities already
used the "mad" card...
i guess i'm just shy of
a close shave with a guillotine...

which is a nice thought to possess...
i'm actually looking
forward to my day-trip
to London tomorrow...

        i'm gagging in spotting
the tourists from the locals,
in the most obscure places...
   **** it... might as well head toward
Hackney and find my
death wish while also fishing
for a pint of Guinness...

   can't drink  Guinness outside of
a pub... you need the patience
to let it flow like a waterfall in slow-motion...

but like i said...
i don't mind the label...
            the drugs are great!
and they befit the perfect
chemistry lab... my my... 'ed,
otherwise known as:

Breezy Brian!

Lips around the base
of a sweetcorn yellow balloon
expanding, turning translucent
its atoms straining, reaching
in a purple attempt to touch fingers
with the next.
Inside, my mirrored breath in lungs
incapacitated
and dry. Sand,
they brought deck chairs and lay
beneath my expanding solar
bubble I am
cultivating, in a gassed
mansion of glass
oblivious. Singed edges
and twisting cells replicating
they laugh in cones and
board planes until there's a

Bellow
And without
Nourishment the balloon
Gulps to die.

Shopping :o)

one bag of flour
the self raising kind
a pound of bacon
without the rind

a loaf of bread
a jar of jam
remember the pickle
to go with the ham

dog food and cat food
cheese and coffee
don't forget raisins
and nuts for the toffee

tomatoes, sundried
get those if you're able,
if you're not sure
it will say on the label

toilet rolls, eggs
shampoo and stir fry
get rolls without seeds
heaven knows why

salad and butter
hot dogs and sauce
get reduced fat, low sugar
and lo salt, of course

chocolate and sweetcorn
chicken and stuffing
a chocolate chip, walnut
and blueberry muffin

pizza with pineapple
ham and some cheese
fairy and cookies
ariel fabreeze

turkey, satsumas
not oranges with pips
tin foil and razors
and food bags with zips

nutella is best
it's the one we like most
so get a big jar
to spread on our toast

boys, thank you for helping
It's a great deal to me
oh, and don't forget cake
and biscuits and tea

i'll leave it to you
if there are things that i've missed
Just get what you think
if it's not on the list.

We sat an’ didn’t like the sweetcorn,
nor the forks, the moon had no quarrel.

The sun had no bite with the wallpaper.
Black, Black the salted air drifted

The colour scented with the taste
of chip’s n’ vinegar

Every hole was a goal, and he was
Going to score, she had opened all
The doors the smile told his glee as
A smile spread from him ear to cheek.

***** was the helper, loosened parts
Otherwise locked under lock and
Key. They were in the throws of
Passion entry open for his pole.

Pink was wet, tasty, hairless except
For a ***** line, fingers strayed as
Two finger glistened with nectars
Juice slipped in both awaiting holes.

Love graced pink covered in silk, then
Back doors opened tight fit, squeezed
In moans of pleasure and pain meet, it
Was like bash the ****** swapping greets.

Each was filled, there was only one left.
Her mouth waiting for loves eager meat,
She smiled as lips tongue did meet, in
The throws of unedited passion.

Pigtails were gasped upon, pile driving
As if time running out. Then passion took
Hold as lips did meet, and then the untold
Did unfold, that moment forever silenced.

Tongues meet as fondling each other, then
Sense touched upon texture,

"What's that on you teeth,

She smiles, and all is clear on white, yellow
Stained, food for thought ideas do meet.

"Is that sweetcorn, I didn't eat that this week,

And horror fills faces, neither does speak. just
Gestures on features, thoughts collide and meet.

"I had a salad yesterday,

"But I brushed my teeth, mirror was my witness,
"There was nothing this morning just pearly whites,

And then like a bulb, **** meet meat, greeted upon
Her eager lips, as he heaved and both looked down
Lumps tiny tucked neatly under skins meat. Moved,
Edged back to what was about to greet.

"I think I'm going to be sick......,

Like a corn on the cob but with one kernel missing,
The one on her teeth, both preyed to the porcelain
God, as the truth of every hole did greet, always check
The pipe work, never knowing what you may meet.

I live in a bleak block of butter,
And then I wonder suddenly of the splendor
d r a p e d  
in dehydrated dandelions
I call my home

As I saunter inside my sweetcorn shell,
I  s w o o n
over the scent of my dad’s cooking,
and over the symphony of laughter resonating
within these four walls
so I could call it home

I’m entrapped in its grasp
since it ensures my ‘safety’,
it’s a prison that entertains,
but never enlivens me
Filled but  e m p t y;
this is not my home

While you were playing FIFA
I was scoring with you mum.
Could hear you through the wall,
as I came in her net, I'd home
goaled in her just for fun.

But it wasn't to disrespect you,
I never wanted to hurt anyone.
Your dad came home when you
were at collage, and I told him
shut the door and sit in the corner
               till I'd finished his wife off.

See he didn't shout or run his mouth
off, cos I knew who he'd been doing
behind her back,
                    none other than my mum.

Now my dads a good man and he loves
my mum, now I'm not making excuses
for her but your dad knew we were happy
and played the unloved man
                   that just needed love.

Well your dad thought she had morning
breath, but na, she's taken my length after
I off loaded in her ***.

But I stayed and watched as your pops  
kissed her passionately.
Dang that must have been a salty kiss
          breath like the sea with raw sewage
and a hint of peppered sweetcorn.

            Now this isn't about you,
this is about men should respect another's
mum, ok I didn't yours, but she knew
that I was a length and your dad was just
             a millimetre short stop.

And I always hit her spot, so god knows
what my mum
                      saw in this old punk.  


After that day, he never did any odd jobs
around my house, and I confided in my
mother that I knew and that I didn't want
anything, I wasn't telling dad. and she cried
and said it was only a kiss and only once.

But she hadn't instigated it, and she'd been
a little drunk. But I saw him ******* coming
out the bedroom sweating? Ye he'd been doing
some DIY, why what have you done.

Nothing Ma, I just told him he wasn't welcome
anymore, are you going around there's again?
Na mom, I'd played a game done to many home
goals, and they suddenly moved on.
   I'll miss my friend but I'll deffo miss his mom.

Try and you try and you still get it wrong because the learning curve is so ******' long and the nights are much brighter on the dark side of sin
knock,  knock and
we'll let you in.

The telephone wire's stripped bare
electrical impulses no longer there
no voice to control me and my
mind's free to run free,
I should shout yippee but
I won't.

on holloween night
acres of framland
we share
the same light
where the
wild black crows
steal fresh staw
and sweetcorn
from the
stretched out arms of
the scarecrow
while
the gray ghosts
and white ghouls
play versions of bach
on their corn-horn
instrumental
sounds in the air

The tawny autumn pastures of Whitehouse
Home of Ozias , the graves of my kin
Miller's Millstone and the Selfridge banks
of Cotton Indian , Roseberry field , Wilson
Chicks Farm , Camp creek and Berry Hill ...
Candy beside Rabbit Rock , bicycles along Decatur
Road , locks of honeysuckle , broomsage , parcels
of soybean and sorghum , sweetcorn and home gardens ..
Fiddlers *** along South rivers sandy banks and islands
Yellow Perch , smallmouth , rock bass and calico

Have you walked a sweetcorn field in June
When Georgia's skies are bluer than blue
The music of waist high plants stirred
in the breath of the Gulf
Gatherings of wild turkey , raucous crows
and flocks of mourning doves
Follow songbirds of all shape and size along
the woodland edge
Traipse dirt roads to the Indian Creek ledge* ...

title: copepod
body:
blister-whale:
somewhat: 2. 502 bad gateway give-away

i have to admit, i took a hiatus from listening to
Marilyn Manson... by chance i came across
a review of... either Born Villain or the Pale Emperor...
clearly: i wasn't paying attention...
ever since i missed the chance to go to a concert
when he was touring the Holywood album...
that same year Mudvayne were touring with L.D. 50...
i switched off after their debut...
i switched off from the music of my youth in general...
went down several rabbit holes...
notably medieval music - blues - jazz -
                      some extra-curriculum classical....
but the artist ages... well... so does his audience...
i don't even remember when i started writing:
let alone posting dotty-doodles on this platform:
i had only one focus... for all the ills that the internet
enhanced... revealed when it comes to the interaction
of people: sure... the older generations found it
convenient to shop... to do banking... to book plane
tickets... but for us younger folk... the ones born
into the years prior to the inception of the internet...
this was our time to build up an underground
of communication... for me? what better way to bypass
the gatekeepers, the publishers...
having amassed some readership... 44 thousand on just
one poem? hmm... let me spell it out: 44,000...
if i were to write it out in matchsticks, i.e. |||||||||| = 10...
what is 44,000 of those pretty stacks of arithmetic?
let me see what 100 looks like...
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what about a thousand?
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                                                  = 1000...
now... i know what 44 thousand looks like... roughly...
how many spectators were there at Wembley...
for the woman's F.A. cup final?
                                        let's say... 41K...
now multiply that space of matchsticks by... 44...
but this is only one poem... i have... thousands of poems...
some are still stashed on my facebook page:
or rather lost on my timeline...
           mind you: i haven't performed any of them...
why? they don't rhyme: for starters...
i like listening to people sing Aud Lang Syne
on new year's eve... and even Shakespeare can't
beat that... Shakespeare's words were never put
to music... and they won't be...
sure... great meter blah blah... but you can't sing
Shakespeare... so there goes the baby...
with the bathtub and the water out of yer
******* window...
                            i'm more a composer than a performer...
i'm more a composer than a performer
therefore not an entertainer...
i gave myself this: jinx... the moment i start
performing... is the moment i stop composing...
i'll just be regurgitating the very few poems
that might be left in my repertoire like...
Ginsberg... having to recite Howl ad nauseam...
me? i'm sort of in the mindset: plough along...
let's not beat around the bush...
   for all the ills of the internet... there's one good...
the possibility to bypass gatekeepers...
publishers... no one would touch my ****...
and yet: they are printing tabloid spew...
           sorry... tabloid *****...
                they are printing propaganda left right
and centre... my work would be... obscure...
revealed: ha ha... perhaps after my death...
let the people judge for themselves...
                     i'm not saying it's Shakespeare...
god forbid writing that stuffy ****...
                             it's contemporary... i don't even think
i'd allow myself to belong to a movement
akin to post-modernism...
   hell: if **** comes naturally... it comes...
if it doesn't... well... i usually need to do something...
ha ha: "cope"... do some cooking, do some cleaning,
do some gardening... so some ironing of the shirts...
go to my part-time job... wait a year until i'll ask
for references and then apply for a job as a teacher...
or take the current route and become a security guard...
which route would allow me to write, more?
probably the latter... then again... experience
as a security guard... could come in handy...
on a curriculum vitae... when it comes to crowd control...
in a classroom of kids...
    but i really don't want to teach chemistry...
i'd love to teach English...
                   - but don't get me wrong.... some artists /
bands got the mix right... they understood
that there needed to be a prominence of the BASS guitar...
Metallica sure as **** didn't catch up...
pretty much all those kinds of bands didn't...
barely audible... well... with the exception of
the intro on Devil's Dance... but then the bass disappears
into inaudibility...
it's like a post-jazz hybrid... in rock music...
the rhythm guitar and all that is considered "melody"
can sort of *******... let's just leave in the screetching
accents of the guitar... keep the vocals...
but... but... let the bass guitar exfoliate...
   and... let the drums compliment it...
    no no... the drums are no longer the building block...
the bass guitar comes first...
  it's a bit like borrowing from opera...
    bass is the baritone... rhythm / solo guitar the soprano...
yada-yada-blah-blah some minutes later...
songs like the Gardener from Born Villain and
Third Day of a Seven Day Binge from the Pale Emperor...
if you listen to them... you can truly... truly: groove...
you can't stop nodding, can't stop swaying...
you start thinking: how is it that pigeons don't
get headaches? i guess they must be listening to cosmic
music only pigeons can hear... like those dog whistle
scenarios... humans can't hear it...
but since... all birds descended from dinosaurs...
they strut... nodding... head-banging... some ancient
music of the cosmos: ergo? no head-ache...
hmm... and this writing coming from a guy who
drinks like a pirate... and is waiting to do psychedelic
drugs if... he might enter the confines of dementia...
oh yeah: i'm keeping that option open...
should i start to slip up... on my pedantic spelling
and punctuation... i'm ******* off to Amsterdam
to a brothel and some magic mushrooms... ****...
i'll need to get a bus out of Amsterdam and find some
forest... something scenic... mind you:
the Netherlands are not that scenic... flat... upon flat...
upon flat... although... that's the jist of things you see
from the motorway when going through...
i'm sure i could find some beautiful spots to trip...
  should the worst come...
but the artists i was fond of listening to in my youth
have finally caught up with what i was thinking:
where, the ****, is, the BASS?
       ****** music jerking off the solo guitar...
no, please... and all that rhythm guitar...
   challenge the drum & bass crowd...
that sputnik crowd of... turning African drumming
into... a stampede of hyenas on amphetamines...
    boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...
mind-blowing load of headache....
the bass guitar can do two things...
it can set the rhythm... it can set the beat...
but it can also can create an undercurrent of a melody...
oh ****... that's three things...
   early Marilyn Manson did respect the bass playing
of Twiggy Ramirez... but... there was still the guitar-maker
melody overload...
the mature artist... given songs like: the Gardener
and Third Day of a Seven Day Binge...
respects the bass guitar... it comes so gloriously to the fore...
something a band like Metallica can never
accomplish... or Led Zeppelin... all those 1970s greats...
those bands had the bass guitar pop up...
in a segment of a song... NIB? by black sabbath?
and then... disappear... don't undermine the Leviathan...
this rock fusion with post-jazz...
oh of course... there's no section in this music...
whereby each instrument takes a chance to solo...
there's no need... everything is just ******* dandy
as it stands...
             - and where would i be... the internet is evil!
ooh: boogie-woogie! sure... people are acting
like ****-storm brainiac... brainiack... brainiak...
   brainiaq...      just four of the possible aesthetic questions
regarding the spelling of: Otto Binder...
not that i'm a massive comic book fan...
well... if you get a chance to meet Declan Tan...
Declan... yeah... for my birthday he gave me a copy
of... Batman vs. Alien... no wait... it was Batman/Aliens...
published in 1997... i think Declan liked me...
i sort of think i liked Declan...
                      the first time i tasted chicken soup that
wasn't Slavic born... with sweetcorn...
(ISBN 1-56971-305-7)...
sure... it's evil... people ghosting each other...
dark-web ******* inner circles etc., the silk road...
hmm... ghosting... poor Jeminah...
how many times did i play roulette... cycling down
Mawney Road in the past... 3 weeks?
not that often... i tried at least once a week...
not that i'm stalking... but it's a decent route...
it's all downhill... and chances of cycling onto sharpnel
is limited... mind you... never... ever...
cycle into the London borrough of Barking & Dagenham...
chances of getting a flat tire... esp. if you're cycling
on 23cm wide tires of a road bicycle?
no brainer...
   before pulling into Mawney Road... i was...
blinded by a sunset... idiot me forgot to wear his sunglasses...
but i stared at the ***** with eyes wide open
waiting for white phosphorus to start pouring
from under my eyelids...
   oh... i'll be looking at you... until the point
where i see you for what you really are:
but you're never really that when you're at sunset...
or sunrise... it's only at your zenith when...
staring long enough at you... exposes you as this
pulverising... vibrating mirror of fluorescence...
sort of silver... sort of white... but not when you're
coming down from your zenith... you're still blinding...
  - only a day prior i thought i saw Frankie...
Friendrich... her son... getting on the bus...
from a 5-a-side football centre off Eastern Avenue...
turned out it wasn't him:
no, it couldn't be him... over-protective mother
would never allow her son to take the bus on his own...
plus... the kid is supposed to be an actor...
she's milking him... "apparently"... he's into bedroom fun
on a games console... you couldn't find him
climbing trees or playing sports... a *****... basically...
the only sport he might have heard of...
is... boxing... to defend him mother from abusive
boyfriends... where: he'd always lose...
- i was waiting for this moment...
the sun blinded me gloriously...
   as i cycled down Mawney Road...
that's the thing about meeting Jeminah... her dog...
i had these self--inflicted knuckle wounds
from putting out cigarette butts on them...
her dog... oh man... her dog loved me...
he really quickened the healing process...
he licked and licked and licked... and licked...
the scabs off... to the point where i started bleeding again...
looking at my knuckles...
nothing prettier in the world... no tattoo could
compensate them...
so as i was cycling down Mawney Road...
who do i see? the over-existed dog... barking... chewing air...
i see the dog first... the dog sees me first...
i later make out that... glorious colour of her hair...
that darkened ginger that's mingling with oak-cask
auburn... i put on my most impressive frown...
i don't look her in the face... mind you:
everything's ******* fluorescent before me
having been blinded by the sun just minutes prior...
i'm not stalking... she was the one that invited me
back to her home twice... yeah... i know where she lives...
that's when i had that mad moment
of leaving her flowers on the porch...
and a Valentine's card through her letter-box...
o.k.: fair enough... that's borderline creepy...
what isn't... with modern woman and feminism?
          a simple boy can't offer up simple love...
i learned from my supervisor...
the daughter of my neighbour that she's no longer
working for the company...
SLANDER... in H'america you can go to court
for that sort of ****... false-accusation, no?
that's what happens...
when a devil tries to outsmart a devil...
the latter devil pushes on... with gifts... with niceties...
the former devil has no option but to retreat...
to its own, former: hellhole... bog...
imagining someone i wanted to love...
stomach pains... mistaking them for butterflies...
single mum, dating much younger men...
or dating men who were big on *******...
former ex-boyfriend women beaters who ran her
into bad credit rating... with... debt...
i know of the mistakes i've made...
   two... in my early twenties... that's why the rest of
my twenties are a blur... that's why only now
i've reemerged as this extroverted silent type...
in my mid-30s... having plans...
   i wouldn't call it: ******* away my youth...
i'd call it... sorry... what? no, sorry... i was sort of absent...
probably alone in the forest... probably at night...
problem being... she can block me on whatsapp...
she block me on the internet...
       hmm... small world... a very small world...
she'll have to move... or commando the minutes she takes
her dog for a walk... the ******* dog licked my scabs / wounds
clean... he has my blood in his veins...
if he sees me... he's going to bark in my direction...
ghost me, *****? in the good old days...
the claustrophobia of a little city where i was born...
my parents lived... let's say... 600 metres apart...
but it took... being jointly invited to a wedding of fellow friends
that brought them together...
Jeminah can't ghost me... like she could forget about
all those guys she flicked left on
when we worked together on a shift on Tinder...
you can't shake off locality...
i'm practically her neighbour... in terms of of how
globalism comes across... what? i'm not allowed to cycle
down this street? she's not even living on the street i'm cycling
down... she's living on the cul de sac...
but i'm not paying for... the debt her ex...
whatever he was racked up in retaliation...
what a pretty face... what pretty hair: hair that i'd give
up drinking whiskey for... it's almost the same colour...
just keeping to the foundation
of routine... i like that street... cycling down it...
if she has any complaints... she better take out
the scab tissue of my DNA from her dog's gob...
but dogs don't simply: forget who they endear...
with affection... the internet distance conundrum
is not going to work on me... the only way she's going
to ghost me... proper... is moving somewhere else...
small world... small town... in the vicinity of Collier Row...
obviously i'm not going to bother her...
god forbid... i have Khedra to mind...
the ******* that gets all the *** that no man
rarely does... and has to text me: come over...
i need you... yeah... that type...
i cycled past with a frown... i just spotted the dog...
ooh... right... well... i know who's behind that dog...
yep... a flicker of dark ginger: disguised brunette...
yeah... that's Jeminah...
but this is counter to how the internet works...
no? in a cosmopolitan setting?
she can't exactly ghost me...
  sure... she can block me... on whatsapp...
   from a ****-show she herself orchestrated... why?
because she didn't have the confidence to compliment
me, directly... she had to: slander me...
she became one of those... idiotic... sappers...
she self-sabotaged herself... notably? after i pushed forward...
with... wine, cake and flowers...
she became a self-saboteur...
   like i said to one of the other girls: lies don't walk on
stilts... lies have short legs...
just wait... see... i've been alone long enough to know...
certain little, ******... analogies?! behavioural patterns
of blah-b'ah black sheep...
             now... i'm waiting for the crescendo...
there's no denying it... i do drink...
   but... allowing women this "sixth sense" of sniffing out
alcohol on... a person you just met...
accusing them of drinking on the job?
i know the territory... my grandmother had the same
sixth sense... when she turned my grandfather into
an alcoholic... he finally broke down and threw her
through a glass door...
        me? ******* prostitutes?! i'm trying to escape that
headache... keeping it sorted behind a... paywall...
   first comes the payment...
i'm not landing on something that's... ahem... "free"...
- it is a big deal! you slander someone
and in H'america you can be taken to court!
i do drink, heavily... but when i'm working...
i half my intake if not third it...
      i wash, i pamper myself... i end up sober on the shift...
at the London Stadium people either take
selfies with me or give me sweets...
i'm a sucker for pop music and... gelatine infused sweets...
i can't refuse them... chocolate can simply not
exist... but... give me a bag of Haribo...
esp. those sour-sweet types... i can't help myself...
i just have to eat them...
- but, this is... a 2nd Jeminah Revelation...
she... she can't swipe left on me... on Tinder...
i'm not on Tinder: never have...
    i'm almost her neighbour if i take out the bicycle...
i can be round her house in a matter of minutes...
London, even Greater London... has... shrunk... for her...
she can block me on an APP-lication...
but she can't... block me... cycling down a road
she takes her dog for a walk...
               i wonder how this dynamic will work out...
on her mind... i was waiting for this moment...
you can't just... ghost me... when i'm living: locally...
sure... you can... "ghost" me... but... that implies:
you have to move... i'm not moving...
i'm rooted... i haven't been this rooted in a long time...
funny how that works...
whatever it is that works... bicycle breaks...
the wheels... the moon and the tides...
that sure as **** works...
the sun and photosynthesis... that also works...
but... the interaction between women
and men, these days?
sure as ****: it's not working...
  which is, rather... a crying shame...
do we really have to go into interracial territory
for it to work?
personally? i don't feel like it...
    no, not really...
                  whoever takes over...
oh... i'm pretty sure the current white overlords
are planning an ultra-coup-uprising of
being the chosen typos...
               whatever...
                i have lost interest in this world...
from about... 2 years ago?
yeah... the world is sort of automated for me...
i lost interest in it...
the whole matter of the "pandemic"... sort of desensitized
toward any sort of attitude toward Ukraine...
i sort... hmm... ahem... don't care...
Ukrainians celebrated the invasion of Poland
by the Nazis during World War II...
if i'm not directly involved: invoked...
i'm going to play the "solipsist" / pacifist card...
the Pontius Pilate poker...
               i'm out... i was already out...
i just don't want to be involved...
                         is that somehow a Buddhist monk
"sentimentality"?
             to hell with Buddhism...
                         1960s cultural appropriate import...
i'm yet to be rid of the **** Christianity that
turned European barbarism into European
secularism.

there might have been perhaps two other New Year's Eve
to match this years,
of these only one was actually magically youthful,
between 2004 coming to 2005 or perhaps it
was 2005 coming to the year 2006...
i was still studying at Edinburgh (Promis, Alicia),
that's when Promis lost her virginity
to me after Hogmanay, becoming irresistible...
seeing Fiona slobber me...
at the same time "drink me, eat me"...
**** drink to puncture her virginity while
Alicia was left cold, Lebanese reading that book:
The Hours... leftover in the communal room...

i didn't have any fun with these girls that time round...
what i had fun with was... my flatmate...

with Tristan from Bristol,
running around the streets breaking car side-mirrors
reenacting scenes fro Fight Club...
Bruce decided to become this middle-aged
man aged 18...
he bought a "bucket" of golf clubs...
one night we took them out...
we took out some golf clubs...
a few golf *****... and a few glasses...
we stood in the middle of the street...
pretending to... AIM... at... ha ha.. AIM...
we missed all the golf *****...
but! we managed to hit all the glasses!
it was... spectacular...
we were golfing in the proper Scottish sense
of the origin of golf...
       we had golf-clubs... we had golf-*****...
but we weren't hitting golf-***** with golf-clubs...
we were using golf-clubs... to... aim at imaginary
pint-glasses... sitting on top of...
shot-glasses... or... perhaps the reverse...

then that one terrible one circa 2003 or 2002...
going back to Poland, back then trying to romance
Katie (Kasie) - being invited to a house party...
being surrounded by teenagers hornier than me...
small-town mentality of getting hitched-early
and i was having trouble to breathe and find out
anything about whether i was already
the foreigner that still spoke his native tongue,
smoke, ****** music,
   the past part of the house party was helping with
the preparations with the host i only met that
evening...

this other New Year's Eve i was sitting alone
in my grandparent's house... alone in the kitchen...
both of my grandparents decided to go to bed early...
i watched the fireworks alone and felt
a solid stone of melancholy: a reflective sadness that
is not some reflex-depress or deflect-impress...

before today i promised myself change my habits,
how i would change everything,
quit smoking or at least cut down: i would most certainly
not smoke in the morning and on an empty stomach,
i would cut down on the heavy bourbon or whiskey
*****... why?
  heavy ***** has ****** up my digestive system a little...
irritable bowel movements and...
sometimes the inability to take a **** in one go...
rather... having in splintered...
   in sections... well... easily prone to sometimes vomiting
or rather: needing to ***** to feel at easy...
that was three days ago...

      i just wanted to stop feeling the also hightened
blood pressure...
             these "headaches" that weren't headaches but sort
of pulsations... as if my brain was dehydrated,
spinning, almost feeling death-tickling...
squeezing of the throat...
i told myself that i would stop drinking the heavy
duty liquids even if that meant i would have more sleepless
nights... well... new year's resolutions begin
two days before a new year's eve...
but the old ways have to come around for just one
last time on new year's eve and then:
with the intended plans...

    prior to the 30th... on the 29th i said to myself:
promise me this you-i, you will follow-through...
so i drank four ciders, took some generic painkillers
to ease me sleep and hey presto...
perhaps not a healthy 8 hour lapse into the Land
of Nod - but at least i woke up relaxed at 10am...
i had 5 hours spare until the shift would start
at the London Stadium...
                       i ate enough food smoked a cigarette
starting puking... right... you're not taking an cigarettes
to the shift... on my way there these
high-pressure "headaches" kicked in...
again i thought i was constipated but i had already
taken a shift before leaving...
no... these were not high-pressure "headaches"
anymore... excitement was kicking...
    i was again promoted to a supervisor: **** it...
here's me taking care of the east-wing with 15 stewards
under me...
i was excited... why? West Ham fans have the worst
reputation of all the clubs in the Premier League...
27 arrests in the season 2021/22...
i was excited... i was expecting something to happen...
i had 4 stewards on their ****** shifts...

in the middle of the match where West Ham was losing
to Brentford 2 - nil, Martin on gate 141 started gesticulating
with his hands in the middle of the second half...
i walk over... he tells me something is going on...
i look up... oh ****... about 12 guys, some of these guys
were fathers who brought their little boys along...
haggling with punches and grabbing and ferocious
tongues, children crying... a woman in the audience
starts glaring at me with hysteria and screaming
at me: do something! do something!
        calmly i turn on the radio and communicate
to Head Control: Control, this is Papa 2.3 -
i need a response team to be at gate 141 immediately!
the woman is still screaming,
the situation is escalating.... the children are even more
distraught, the blokes are more ferocious
(and the funny thing is, it's West Ham fans
fighting West Ham fans and not Brentford fans...
because the team is close to relegation
and i guess one fan knows better than another
fan about how to turn the situation can be
overturned) -
                           so as the pitch-side manager
Joe once said about contacting Head Control:
'i try getting through to them, they ignore me...'
well... i go at the radio again...
    'Control! this is Papa 2.3 - i need a response team
at gate 141 of the Billy Bonds stand! turn your cameras
onto what's happening! the situation is escalating!'
hey presto... persistence paid off...
    in about 20 seconds about 10 bouncers (SIA licensed)
rush in and break up the crowd... take some guys out,
comfort the children... i'm just happy the hysterical
woman is not looking at me eyes of scorn as if i'm
some impotent radio-holder...

the shift finishes at around 10:30pm...
   i still manage to catch the tube to Gants Hill and the 66 bus
to Romford, the petrol station near the police station
is still open so i buy three ciders...
    get home just after 12am, drink two ciders smoke two
cigarettes, take some painkillers and try to sleep...
oh ****... oh right... no chance of that happening...
i'm already sweating from alcohol withdraw...
cider can't replace bourbon or whiskey...
                   but excitement turns into post-panic control:
the situation was contained...
but that's not why i couldn't fall asleep...
i tried to... maybe i did for about 30 minutes in between
listening to Heilung's album Futha...
   i must have snoozed off for about 20 to 30 minutes
maybe less... turning side to side...
                                       but i knew that there wouldn't
be any point given i finished drinking the cider at
around 1:10am and i had to get up at 6am...
               to eat some porridge, shower, get dressed...
which i did... weird... ever see a fly casually flying
in a kitchen during December? heat makes flies crazy
during flight... in the "cold" of December (13 degrees Celsius
is cold for December... i experienced about
a week of promising,, authentic cold and snow
a week or two ago) - now this stinking damp and mediocre
cold... ate the porridge standing up contemplating
the lazy flight of the fly... so big... so juicy...
thank god it was one of those black ones and not
those green-belly that **** out dormant larva so quickly
the larva that turn to maggots so quickly...
black flies don't have that capacity...
because black flies... well... you associate black flies
with pestering cows... ergo? they feed off ****...
the blue-belly flies feed off dead meat... cat food...

6am wake up, wash, get dressed, and *******
to Putney Bridge for a 9am shift starts at Cavern Cottage:
Fulham vs. Southampton... New Year's Eve...
i have done a shift on Boxing Day last year...
double pay... but doing a Boxing Day shift is not the same
as... doing a New Year's Eve shift...
      it's like that W. H. Auden quote about
New Year's Eve:

the only way to spend New Year's Eve is
either quietly with friends or in a brothel.
otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off,
someone is bound to be left in tears.

ha! i have a third option!
    
so on my way to Putney Bridge, since the Elizabeth
Line is on strike until the 2nd of January...
****... this complicates my travel in London a little...
i can't take the simple option of taking the 103
bus to Romford Station and head to Paddington
and then a short walk from one Paddington (train)
station to the Paddington (tube) station and
like... 6 stations from Paddington to Putney Bridge
(Stamford Bridge, if you're interested?
that's at Fulham Common, or Broadway,
one of the two) - i could have complicated matters
by taking a longer walk from Hammersmith...
but i like walking through Bishop's Park...
as i was once reminded by one co-worker...
that's where Gregory Peck meets the priests
who gets killed in the film Omen...
it's a beautiful park: it's right next to the Thames...
so the route changes... i have to get the 103
bus to the A12 and then get on the 66 bus to
Newbury Park... then the central line to
Holborn, then the Piccadilly Line to Earl's
Court and then the District Line to Putney Bridge...
i truly tried all the alternatives...
e.g. central line to Oxford Circus -
Victoria line to Victoria and the district line
to Putney B.
     or... central line to Notting Hill Gate and
district line to ditto B....
     but i found that... there's too much walking
involved...
          the shortest route is the one i found out...
sure... it's a bit long changing at Holborn...
but changing at Earl's Court is the shortest...
plus Earl's Court is the interchange
between Edgware Rd, Richmond, Wimbledon,
Upminster and Ealing Broadway...
and the station is almost open air... so sickly sweet
underwear drying in the underground
during the Blitz sort of sensation association
with waiting...

                          ah... well... i managed to get in
to the sign in area for the shift early, i was probably the first,
said hello to the owner of the company,
who's name i always forget... an imposing figure...
former-military... but i still forget his name...
Scott... Scott... hello hello... i didn't shake his hand
this time round because i'm not left-handed
and i noticed he was holding a cigarette in his right...
signed in...
   ooh... the grand comedy of being early...
some perks come with that...
between Putney Green and Putney Bridge i realised
that my halting my drinking and elevation
of insomnia left me without any of those
high-blood pressure headaches... no excitement...
not this time round...
               i was cool as a cucumber...
i didn't feel any constipation... but then after signing
in... ooh... that porridge really helped...
as did that ****** chicken, sweetcorn mayo and
salad sandwich and Monster watermelon drink
did too... sign in at 9am... shift starts at 10am...
irritable bowel-movements...
    the staff toilets sub-standards... i tell someone:
if anyone asks... i'm going to the public toilets
in Bishop's Park... but there are toilets for staff?
you see the cubicles mate? cubicles without doors...
i'm not here to ****... i'm here to take a dump!

fidgety i'm walking back to Bishop's Park...
i enter the toilets... i enter the toilets... then the cubicle...
i peer in... wow! no animals were (yet) here!
the toilet seat is clean! it's left down!
there's toilet paper! there's a coat hanger!
wow! wow! am i just about to "******" as if seeing my
favourite ****-star from when i was 15?!
i take my coat off and all the elements of accreditation,
high-viz. and stadium passport...
undo my shirt a little at the collar and sleeves...
undo my zipper and clip pull down my trousers
down sit down and: PHOO! i **** out both
a gold nugget of firm shirt and a subsequent
waterfall of the looser stuff... my god...
i know that i'm supposed to find some sort of relief
in *******... this... this is better than *******...
ejaculations happen in private...
this is inverted *******: taking a **** in a public
toilet is more of a relief than ******* in private...
after all... it's pretty much the same, isn't?
i might not be looking someone in the eyes...
my member might not be in someone else's body...
but... Bishop's Park was organising their annual
run around the park for jogging enthusiasts...
i was already done when this one jogger ran
into a cubicle next to the one i was sitting in
finishing off my "taking a ****" counting time
solving a Mahjong... when i start to hear him puking...
i just took the most glorious Hiroshima ****
and here's next to me separated by a flimsy screen
that can't sort of discriminate the existence of sounds...

we waited for the shift to start for so long...
Stephanie pulled out... i saw her at West Ham and she asked me
whether i'd be with her in the Bishop's Park...
she turned in sick... so... i was back with Toni...
on the Hammersmith end of the stadium...
well... Thames-side and Hammersmith end...
i just implored her for a favour... i'm tired Toni...
can you put me on the outermost position...
last time i curated this position the weather was beautiful...
i spotted the bridge after Putney Bridge and
i thought: oh... the Kew Bridge...
what a glorious sight... but no...
the bridge that comes after Putney Bridge is
the Hammersmith Bridge... but that's when the weather
was good...
i just didn't want to work with Mark...
    citation needed: 'with my 12 years of experience
as a steward...'                      the ****-joke of the profession...
it was barely a year since i worked this job
and i was already supervising and yet he...
yeah...                               i can understand flies...
more than these busy-bodies of deluded semi-half A.I.
projects of hurt humans...
Francis Bacon paintings are grotesquely beautiful...
but this? this is reality-par-excellence...
interacting with it is: this incomplete human sort
of a joke... that can become a sly group-think of
being comfortable with a specified discomfort...

so i asked her... stand me there... next to ol' Father Thames
and let me admire that bridge i'm not sure about...
so she did...
     what i wasn't actually expecting was the weather...
i took the ******* position...
but as i soon learned... the best position...
the wind came with the rain and the rain came with
the wind...
                      there was this dog-walker with 4 dogs
with one being a terrier ADHD prone spaniel...
running rampage as if having seeing the godhead
of Anubis...
                      
          i was directing Southampton fans to the Putney
stand to avoid the Hammersmith stand...
just talking... hello, how are you, good afternoon...
smile... more smile... choke on a ******* biscuit
and a peppermint...
                   old men telling you: you're not getting paid
enough... lovely weather, oh... not as lovely as if...
it might be staged in the dark...

more about Mark with Lyndon and Toni...
pestering three women Chill (that middle-aged Turkish
woman... oh names... apples: Melanie... Nile? pears?
verbs?!) talk gets lost... on details...
joking about jumping the tide-out Thames...
i was just looking at how crows scared the seagulls...
one swan swimming alone...
metal-pickers in the mud...
                         i'm not myopic or the antagonism
of myopia... L.S. Lowry's stick-paintings...
                                 sure as **** metal-pickers...
in the mud i noticed what i first thought was a treasure
chest... turns out it was an old computer disk...
what was that even called if it wasn't a monitor?

oh and the weather truly broke me...
the rain came at an angle...
i smarted myself up by asking for a second... water resilient
jacket to put... i wasn't going to put on a flimsy potato-starch
pancho...
but that didn't stop my trousers getting soaked...
then once the rain stopped and the wind resumed:
getting dry... then once the rain came back getting soaked again...
but my socks were already soaked beyond getting dry...
walking the pavement in wet socks in leather shoes
is like... skinning an alive pig...

soaked feet.... although my upper body was kept warm...
talking with Toni about the proper attire for
winter... waterproof overalls... from Sports Direct...
and combat shoes: Magnums, used by police officers
and the army and all manner of security forces...
she asked for a cigarette, i gave her one,
she wasn't expecting a Camel... we walked...
looking each other in the eyes and subsequently
at each other's shoes...
in that instance she told me about her life...
she was living with her father and her stepmother...
how he biological mother kicked her out...
i just forgot which of her "mothers" was
the bipolar one... oh, right... her stepmother...
so i inquired about her stepmother's bipolar disorder...
so is that like manic depression?
no? split personality disorder? what's that like?
are all her personalities integrated or are they,
each to their own, loose canons?!

but there were these other two girls... Naomi...
who looked like a more pristine version of Will Smith's
wife... Jada Smith... i was... looking at Jada Smith...
with more hair... a nose piercing and a piercing
like a freckle where my moustache would cover it:
to the side... two kids... living in Richmond...
totally irresistible... this is how i always wanted
to spend my New Year's Eve... stoically...
at first in a gradation of pain...
pain from feat turning into the flayed beast
revealing nothing but bone, prone to accepting
the elements...

           this other girl... nice... cannibal looking teeth...
bound to braces... plump in the face... wearing a beany hat...
also mingling with Mark, the negate,
she touching him teasingly... once ***** was mentioned
i gave her some advice... oh... but you do know that
the only way to drink ***** is to drink it frozen, right?
so it resemble a sickly sick syrup... no ice, no mixer...
at best a chaser... she peered at me as if i belonged to
an ethnicity of a people that knew how to drink the ****
stuff... quizzical eyes... i forgot to tell her about
spending some time with the Russians:
being myself of a Slavic origin: ABSOLUT VANILLA...

i already knew it was the sort of New Year's Eve i was waiting
for when the shift was coming to a closure...
i was back in position admiring the Thames...
admiring the fading dark Green of Hammersmith Bridge
when the supporters were walking out...
one recognised me saying: so, you're been here,
all along? pretty much...
more passed and i just started spewing the casual:
have a good night, safe journey home,
and then the seemingly comical:
happy new year!

                 happy new year echo!
happy new year! happy new year!
            this precautionary tale of when Gandalf inquired of
poor Frodo: will it be?!
what? a happy new year?!
am i wishing a happy new year to you in advance
hoping, or perhaps wishing, or perhaps knowing:
that it might be... a happy new year?!
the phrase itself is about as meaningful or... meaningless
as licking a post-stamp and sticking it to
a postcard... wishing or not wishing: a "you"
to be "here"... no?!

                                   how about... happy new year
could be replaced with: MAYBE NEXT YEAR...
i.e. when i and you, are still alive...
we'll see each other again... i think that just might be
the summit of what happiness entices mortal creatures
such as ourselves to, from time to time: actually: believe!

the shift ended, i was soaked from feet down...
the trip back from Putney Bridge back to Romford was
sort of... giving CPR to octopi and walking on borrowed
legs... and less than sleepy eyes...
i got off at Gants Hill... ordered a spicy chicken burger
and three hot wings... gulped them down...
went into a Tesco Express... bought myself
a 70cl bottle of Jim Beam, a bottle of Pepsi...
3 cider bottles...
                     got home... said hello to my parents...
sorry... i'm ******* off... climbed into bed...
pretended to sleep, or rather, relaxed with naked feet
under the bed-sheets from them not being soaked...
"woke up" after about 2 fours... hours...
greeted them... sorry... i'm not into St. Sylvester's
celebration...
but i sat down with them...
as i have done for the past two or three years...

Jools Holland's Hootenanny has become sort of:
10pm ITV news in the household come this time of year...
what wouldn't i do without it...
Cat Burn's song Go... i never heard of it until then...
i ate some traditional tripe broth...
to warm the stomach up...
i hanged the bottle of Jim Beam and the bottles of cider
on the garden fence before coming home...
i was going to pick them up later...
to drink... well... at least half...
but it was so worthwhile to be so physically exhausted...
wow! these notes i wrote about that month
last year where i spent almost spent £1000 of prostitutes
and in the meantime lost two of my greatest
lovers... of 30 minutes' worth...
i.e. Khadra and Mona... who... the Madame of the brothel
told me would never return...

we watched the ******* spectacle of the fireworks...
wow! great! crowd!
i just retorted... if i were the people between
Westminster Bridge and the Embankment Bridge...
seeing the fireworks... i'd save up on t.v. memory...
i'd record the collective spectacle...
but got before the massive wheel
and stand there and stare... oh... but look...
who what or when Londoners? Chinese tourism...
the inescapable flu: chick or flex pork chop infections
but no rats and flies are the wholesome friends?!
standing there... with technology spread-out *******
third-eye non-experience...
the technology saw it first...
                                ugly humans non-humans
robots seem lovelier...
                    
                     that's how i learned about Cat Burn's song Go
thinking: didn't Ed Sheeran write this?!
doesn't matter...
once this supposedly spectacular night ended
when i heated up my feet and regained some flesh
in them...
                  i started drinking with my usual standard
of toxicity... looking through old notes...
ooh! an unfinished joint! wow! i had a premonition!
i will not want to go to a brothel i will not want
to go to a depressing house-party...
i will want to go inward...
into myself and starve anything already established...
i think i must have met about 3 girlfriends
tonight... possible...

now i'll finish a bottle of 70cl of bourbon by myself
while writing and smoke that joint...
finally! a new diet of music!

and the odl rekindling of an alliance....
perhaps placing conkers might put off spiders
from aligning a household with a disapproval for housing
spiders... but flies... that's a different matter;
i'm going to smoke this joint
and dream my hazardous of this years first and last
breaths.

where is that ******* fly...
i hope it's still alive while i'm alive... if i swallow it in
the night... i'll pretend to be a Pontus Pilate...

no other New Year's Eve has been so benevolent to me...
i was fudge packed between commuters not trying to
entertain the fireworks on the Thames...
me? go home...
       tired old young man....
                         why are there suspicions of me:
by simply being punctual as having any sort of association
with any nation's army?!
i like sunsets... i like sunrises... i adore the aloofness
of the aloneness that's: otherwise missing
in the claustrophobia of interaction with the other...
WOJSKO...
                        
            this has certainly been the best New Year's Eve
to meet all others...
before me stand's King Lear and Lot's Wife...
i wonder... who is... the Pillar of Sugar?!
Sugar = Salt + Water... no?!
so who is... the pillar of Sugar?!

   ah... ha: hermeneutics contra etymology!
          there's only one history for me...
   that being etymology: the origin of words from words:
to use words is not to use anything beyond words themselves...
which excludes my original assumptions that
letters or geometric shapes akin to letters or vice versa
could ever be utilised...
verba ex verba - non verba ex figura, numerus vel littera:
verba ex et enim verba!
meaning for meaning...
not meaning borrowed from either the associated
or dissociation...
or dissociation and a(n) association...

   well... it just so happens that i have... something of a...
half-wit... canvas of artificial-intelligence
to work with... it's basic intelligence...
                           just what i need.

Ken went off to a barbe' with his Barbie
and I'm sat here playing Derby to my Joan,
must not moan
I must not moan
I'm having the time of my
must not moan,
beef on the bone
chicken
prawns
sweetcorn and
you haven't been born
until you've tasted barbecued sweetcorn,

but
I'm having the time of my
Joan just fell asleep.

.i'm not going to perfect this piece of writing, since i know, that it will sink into the bottomless pit of time, and even if i give a **** about it being remembered, it won't be... there are authentic observations in this... the authenticity is in the fact they are being remarked... but to even bother to make said observations dogma, or perfected... no... not a chance... i can't be bothered... i'm already thinking about what i'll gorge down before going to sleep... a tuna, sweetcorn and mayo side... i showed the way, i'm not going to provide the pristine scholastic schematic of the interaction between tongue, lips, teeth and the breath; least of all... people will draw different conclusions when they look into their mouth while ushering out an R... notably in English... with the extinct trill, in orthodox text: atypically associated with the letter... bee sting ow something... these people mowphed the lettew Aw into a lisp and wewe stung by a bee, so they widiculously speak like so? calling it a lisp?

all the president's men...

   i just woke up from
a period of the 1980s,
the 1990s,
the naughty-naughty
double zero d'd'digtal
aging of the digital world...

the Mongols are coming!
the Aztecs are coming!
death cloud don counter
measures, no. 6...

but seriously...
what the **** happened
to journalism?
you think that i am nostalgic
about the music from
the 20th century?

i'm nostalgic about
the sort of journalism
displayed
in the movie all the president's men...
the current stuff?
thanks for the crack...
but... i'll just stick to either
sober, cigarettes or *****...

what happened,
why all this bogus...
worse than fiction dissection...
words are... violence?!
i thought that words
were meaning?
i thought that words
were phonetic encoding
devices?
  from the phonetics
came the linguistics...
i thought weren't
mono-,
  one-dimensional,
they had a resonance
to them,
the words were stereo-....
words, are, violence...
let that sink in...
words, are... violence?!
you sure on that one?

words are the skeletal
representation of forms,
words are the elevated status
of hieroglyphs...
they are the conjurers of
ideas, narrative, otherwise
hidden / lost names
and nukes of meme...
ideas... working from the basin
of images...
  
words are violence...
wow!
     it's like the previous
years were backwards
chimp frenzy of violence...
but now?
now is a different playground...

i thought that words were meaning...
so...
     all meaning is now hate?
so... if i wanted to encode someone's
speech, by lip-reading...
the B pouch of the bubble lips...
P, also similar...
   M the vibrating lips murmur...
A: hidden breath catcher H
in dentistry...
        open mouth...
O genesis of an open mouth
getting smaller...
   U... open mouth...
forming into a bird's beak worth
of lips...
    so many instances...
wait... how many times is the tongue
actually used... to provide
letters?
A: x
      B: x
C: ✓
      D: ✓
E: x
          F: x
   G: ✓
                H: ✓ (not in Slavic, though)
I: ✓/x
   J: ✓
    K: x
        L: ✓
    M: x
  N: ✓ (tongue pressed to the palette)
O: x
               P: x
             Q: ✓ (the tongue is tensed,
   when the breath is passed...
like when you fold your tongue
to look like a ******, ever so slightly...
the letter actually rests upon
a tensed tongue, slightly folded,
retracted, and the breath and pursed
lips being subsequent)
    R: ✓ / x
         unless you had your tongue
numbed in western Europe,
on this letter, or harking up
no excess phlegm from a non-existent
flu in French... this is the rattle
letter... rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rolling a ball...
rattlesnake...
  you pass a breath... whereby your
tongue waggles... repeatedly slapping
itself against the palette...
otherwise... just a boring Ar....
S: ✓ (no explanation required...
          the tongue presses against
the palette... a breath is passed through
it... and a hiss is made)
T: ✓ - the tongue bounces off
the palette once it has been pressed on
it for a while...
U: x
    V: x
        W: a misnomer in terms of vowels...
or in terms of consonants...
   it's a duo-syllable,
and... well... not exactly given status
as a letter, a mono-syllable instance
of either vowel, or consonant...
it's the only name of a letter
in the English language...
a double-U (shh... it's a double V)
X: ✓ an exploratory variant of S:
choking tongue on the rub-rub with tonsil,
pulling back, and then behaving like an S...
Y: ✓
                 the shape?
  pursed lips, expanding to an open mouth,
almost smiling, pivot on the tongue
caught on the schematic            i
Z: another alternative to S...
tongue pressed to the teeth,
a breath passes above it...
   a vibration, the teeth unclench
their bite... and an -ed comes out...
but the tongue posits the Z,
so unlike the S
             the breath is ejected
-ed
                 rather than inhaled
           es-

tongue versus the palette versus
the top two incisors,
contra breath and lips...
of the bones...

why do i wear sunglasses in the night?
the night is not dark enough...
i implore the night to forgive me,
the ownership of a shadow...

now... that's the romance...
but how did the modern epidemic of
insomnia grip the world?
how?!

           neon? neon pulverization?
no?
               listening to the *******
radio kept the domino hovering
over what became the subsequent
cascade?
yes?!

                to shield my ******* eyes!
i grunt a voice
from the bowels...
but you will not hear it...
so i let my voice be eaten by
the bowel, and let the grunting
come,and overcome
what was once a voice...

to your god, and his son...
may your  hope reside with...
i am taking
the"chanced" spectacle of...
until a third
Pontius Pilate bid us part...

with yours serving out..
a hell on earth, for a heaven without
either hell or earth...
or mine....
   a heaven on earth...
          for a hell without
either heaven or earth...

but that's ot enough...
it would take a french bun...
some mayo,
    a tuna tinned...
and some sweetcorn tin...

i hate the sound of my voice
while i drink,
given me the reason / impetus
to write...
as i've notcied...
those who perform their
poetry?
        i like them...olivia gatwood...
to name one, and all,
but the few...
i can't read this *******...
if i read this *******,
i wouldn't be writing more
of this *******...
if i speak these words...
it's like a quote from
Gladiator from a fictional

Marcus Aurelius...

/ there was a dream that was Rome.
you could only whisper it.
anything more than a whisper
and it would vanish, it was so fragile. /

now you only replace
that word Rrrrrr.... with Eu....
nothing more...

i had not feigned to dream of Europe,
i came to the altar of Augustus,
and came across the Helen
that became Cleopatra...

   but...                 but...
        my people do not share the inherited
history of this tongue...
   the Germanic tribes weren't conquered,
perhaps... the Scythia...
but beside that association?

it's one thing asking for integration,
learning a language...
but when a learned language...
decides to have a mind of its own?
and doesn't obey your cultural
constraints? what then?
you will ******-like dictate your
pseudo-PM citizen-agenda
you **** staatssicherheitsdienstbrigade?!
so language not enough?
i need to encompass a post-colonial
identity politico?!
mate... you have a ***** lose or
what?! you jerking off a *******
elephant while getting a hand-job
from a ******* octopus?!
but i'm pretty sure you've employed
a cohort of N. Irish to mind
the whole integration, "game"...
you employed Paddy power to mind
new, European integrate ******
successors of "parasites"...
i know a paddy when i drink a paddy's
drink...
no... you're not getting past
this *******... i'm not Paddy...
but i'd side with a Pict...
i want Brussels to exercise the fullest
extent of their behavior in
the ******* Congo...
        
no... at this point...
do i ******* care what i look like?
but Paddy gotta do what
a Paddy would: technically not do...
pry open an oyster and pretend
to poodle...
but i guess Paddy does, what
a ****** should do...
oh wait... Newcastle...
that sort of "English" is off-limits..
if it was ever "on"-limits...

     but then again... why expect
more, or less...
the Saudi Arabians are bombing Yemen...

   the Mexicans are discriminating
against the Honduras people...

                 the Japanese hate every ching or
chang that do not participate in
ski-jumping events...

why should i even justify a rationality
of a continental / shared continental roulette
game of shared values being celebrated...
**** it...

                the Japanese don't really like
the other asians...
     the English are more at home
in having to import a post-colonialism
nationhood than feel at home with
their European brotherhood...
  but... oh... look!
you really thought America or Australia
would give a ****?!
you shtoopid or shumshing?!

yeah... and by the looks of it...
a dumb ****** as i...
would be most at home, in a place called
Mali... sub-saharan Africa...
who would have thought, eh?!

it's only of those hellish nights,
suddenly the alcohol is not working
as a sedative,
and you begin internalising
a berserker, and it's not looking pretty,
you're frustrated by
the fact that you left no. 9455 &
no. 9456 unsolved -
    and it's hitting you like
a steam-train,
      the internet connection is slow and
all you want to do is: scribble some
**** on a blank "page" of pixel -
you begin your outlet with mourning
journalists, mongering for pay
from the tech-media giants because their
print on a "real thing" worth of paper
sells less than toilet, paper!
      mind you, at least wiping your ***
with a duvet worth of silk sounds much
better than wiping your *** with a newspaper...
  grr...
i hate these nights,
the nights when the whiskey runs hot
in me, like blood,
and i can only think about starving or mutilating
bodies...
                  my only solace is a music
of groans and screams...
    i hate these nights...
                           and to top it all off,
a revelation...
that phrase: forgive & forget...
that's really ticking me off...
    love your enemy?
the **** is this trash?! ah, right,
crucifix in hand: double-jeopardy...
              how can you fathom
forgiving an enemy, while at the same time
forgiving them?
     i can't exactly the fathomable
synonymous affair being true...
believe when i say:
   it's harder to forget than it is to love...
what the **** are you people
prescribing me, Alzheimer's?!
  an ethical construct whereby i suddenly
transcend an unethical act,
by a miraculous-ness of, amnesia?!
     if only forgetting were as easy
as the supposed "love"...
      i can't forgive, because i can't forget,
likewise: i can't love because
   i am training my memory to
endear a "said" event with true apathy...
         how can you make forgiveness
fathomable with a forgetfulness?
or turn love into an act that's
peppered with an anger that dawns
upon despair?!
                the only forgiveness you can
offer is the one that allows you
to actually forget...
  you don't forgive and forget...
this is a case of a beyond good & good:
    you do know that
allowing forgetting to take place of
forgiveness,
  is much harder than allowing
love to take the place of retribution?
  it's corrosive, erosive,
we already experienced the systematised
erosion of the memory faculty
by being schooled in the pointlessness
of the pythagorean theorem...
so, what's new?
          you can't forgive, & forget...
the semblance of the two being
required misses the point that:
one is actually the other...
you can only forgive by forgetting...
beyond good & evil:
    there's no love or hate involved...
           there are but three prime
faculties of man:
imagining, thinking, memorising...
       i count no others...
     the god father the son man and
the congratulatory congregation
can **** my big toe when it comes
to cubic parameters of narration...
       the mantras of the memory,
the thinking of the son -
  and the imaginings of the father:
how this could have been,
an almost perfect, world.
                         i'll sooner kneel before
a guillotine than his religion
of icon upon icon upon icon
upon the blaspheming tongue,
waggling toward the gates of inferno,
masochistic in a self-righteous tone;
horrid obscure, sentenced saint of
the trans-gender abomination of:
    if it weren't for the heterosexuals,
you'd have a feast; a feast of: dodo.
god, i hate these nights,
  when the alcohol doesn't act like
a sedative, but, instead,
acts like oil thrown into a fire...
      it's beyond agitated, it's chaotic,
and free, and clearly in the mood
for gnashing the teeth,
                   and, perhaps, eating
some bone marrow...
                         but how can you
forgive, if you can't forget?
            sincerely one can only forgive:
if one can forget!
               but memory is a series
of tattoos...
one is already tattooed by
the african glee or the solstice of the north...
incubating a pseudo-albino...
            how can you forgive
if you can't forget?
        the only true forgiveness in this
world is a forgetfulness,
but invoking an enforced
forgetfulness is the persistence
in an erosion of mental faculties that
allow you to function...
        i abhor this callous carelessness of
the casual expression that's treated
as a insightful maxim...
    it's horseshit littered with sweetcorn pips;
what shanty town preaching
is this?!
         it's far more difficult to
forget your enemy, than it is to either love,
or hate them...
why?
              memory delves into
nostalgia that delves into a remorse of
returning tide of apathy, objectivity...
           it is far much harder to forget,
than it is to "forgive" - since the instructed
demand for amnesia also invokes
a sense of a "self": i.e. that which no longer
can be concrete, but transient.
                   i hate it when alcohol becomes
this agitating, and labours for a need for
scrupulousness...
     what a ****** pairing:
                i'm pretty sure the beatles learned
confucius with:
   live and let live...
                 who the hell would still
want to listen to a *******?!
                maybe, three generations from now,
people like will be classified as:
rebellious without a need to rebel,
or, part of a rebellion that only served
similar in origin and replica: iconoclasm...
this vein of thought is a stark
morphing of a cul de sac, a cave,
            and a serpentine of quroboros;
the reasoning of the greeks,
was never to be married to
  the "irrationality" of the hebrews...
            and did you ever wonder
why the 3 magi were not figures of revenge
of the persian empire?
         just wondered...
  why didn't they ever call it
the crown of myrrh?
            you seen myrrh?
          how it grows?
                      there's a crown for you,
right there...
                           no, i will not drop the already
dead piece of meat from my jaws...
   i will not b'aah b'aah when they next
light the christmas lights...
              i am just about this close
to performing the ritual of:
washing my hands clean, like pontius pilate,
from the whole affair...
        that's my answer to the ritual of baptism...
you either get confirmed,
  or you wash your hands clean
and say: c'est la vie!

There is too much turmeric and cumin
and now I need to make room in
the kitchen cupboard,

there's
enough pasta to last a lifetime
rice for weddings galore
two of last years Christmas pies
I can hardly close the door.

I'll get rid of the tuna and sweetcorn
and make a salad for Saturday tea,
the corned beef can go in a hotpot
the whole tin just for me.

id est contra sic (502 bad gateway bypass)

dare to write something
beautiful only once...
the rest of the time you can
spend it (i.e. time)
finding the world rather
ugly...

            (caught you mother-******!,
no i can publish my original intent!)

i sit on the windowsill come the night and look out
at the clouds and the moon and everything else
the night might allow me to see,
but at the same time i'm tricking my cat into
"thinking" that i'm sitting on a windowsill drinking
and looking at "something"
for him to subsequently imitate me when
i'm not on the windowsill to do the same...
he decided it was worthwhile to imitate me...
sometimes he sits on my usual spot
(although not perched like a crow,
sitting on a folded leg, crunching the bones
where my leg ends and my foot begins)
or he sits parallel to me on the windowsill
in the bathroom...
i look out, he looks out...
what he doesn't know is that when i'm looking
at the horizon and the moon and trying
to conjure faces from the clouds i'm actually looking
in... these external objects just aid me in introspection,
i have this cauldron of memories stashed in me
that i bring to the fore in a labyrinth of
thought...
it helps to elevate and bring together
a mixture of thought-memory... i can't escape thinking
without memory: it has been drilled into me from
an early age, mind you: everyone has been drilled
this complex: thought-memory within the confines
of pedagogy... very quickly we are told that
thought-memory is prime while thought-imagination
ought to be extinguished...
i.e. you should really imagine a circle if you've already
seen a circle, but you should remember
that... A = πr²...
                                no? within the confines of modern
pedagogy we are absolved of any imagination:
we apparently have none, no imagination to put up
with a mundane job by imagination little critters of
escapism on our own behalf within ourselves...
and memory? well... personal memories can sort
of "**** themselves" when it comes to memorising
rubrics of arithmetic and spelling...
or the ingestion of historical facts that: when coupled
with the ongoing onslaught of journalistic overload
mean very little... in a time of libido and historical
insomnias...
well i do know how to escape from something
mundane presented before me...
i remember better times,
memory is a fickle creature: it takes time to control
it in order to select the most pleasurable memories:
and even then, it doesn't ****** work:
pedagogy did that: we had to remember things we
would rather wish to forget because they have
to relevance in our life, or how we apply our skills
or non-skills... but of the personal memories we
gather: they are automatically filtered by memory-itself,
a "cognitive selection" takes places:
who says it's either natural or unnatural,
is must be both... then again: you can't remember everything,
but i prefer the cinema of memory mingling
with thought (or its narrative aspect absent
of the ******) than if i were lost in imago-cogito...
the imagining-thinking...
my cat "thinks" i'm looking at something interesting...
i'm not... then again i am: i'm looking backwards:
i'm reflection on, for example, today...
Poet of the Coliseum... supervising blah blah...
what crept up today was what has crept up
at the London Stadium for the past several shifts...
the Jeffrey Dahmer (ugh... a surd of H)
show... i swear to god i'm sensing that i'm giving off
vibes of a serial killer to certain people...
in the work environment people try to cue
some personality, some personal references to fellow
coworkers... me? i'm trying to push back with as much
ahem... "professionalism" as possible...
i'm here, i work, i'm done, i'm out...
i drink alone, i don't drink to talk i drink to write...
but over several shifts this topic was raised and i'm like...
can't we talk about Ed Gein?
he was a much bigger cultural influence on America than
the whole lot of them put together...
all the serial killers were white... huh?!
what about that black guy... why isn't Samuel Little
famous, based on the body count?
we talked about America... racism blah blah... south...
i said i didn't have a thirst for seeing America...
Kamchatka, the peninsula? oh yeah... America?
no really... it's a land of the celebration of Cain...
clearly... elsewhere serial killers would be taken into
a prison cell and get shot in the back of the head
and as the urban myth goes... they wouldn't die
immediately... sure... the brain would be ******...
but the heart would still be ticking tick-tock...
a bullet in the head is not some magical immediacy of death...
ask Christine Chubbuck... she was on life support
machines in limbo because she only not only
missed her brain but merely damaged it...
like that urban myth aligned to:
a cockroach loses its head... what does the cockroach
die of? starvation...
Franz Kafka was right (stab the heart)
Kurt Cobain was wrong (shotgun to the head)...
am i seriously giving off vibes of a serial killer or something?!
well... finally! i found one Subway outlet that
accepted discount vouchers...
ate nothing beside a slice of pizza i made the day earlier
when i woke up... i was getting dizzy from low sugar...
i ordered a foot-long chicken something or other...
and a drink... £5.50... decent...
i love Subway... why? the bread is prepped,
the meat... then you get to the salad section and the girl
asks you... what would you like, onions? sweetcorn,
salad, black olives... etc.
     it gets them all the time when you reply: all of it...
i ******* hate fussy eaters... if there's one "class" of
people i hate more than vegans it's: fussy eaters...
i hate fussy eaters...
i'll eat dried fish and drink beer with Russians talking
about fussy eaters and how: no...
peanuts are not the perfect compliment to beer...
Russians gulp down dried fish while drinking beer
like the Thai add dried shrimps to their curry sauces...
idle me... i do believe animals have souls...
i just don't think they think...
how can a dog think when all he can is utter
a bark or a cat think if he can only utter a meow?
what "thinking" is there bound to man's
"deciphering" of the sound the cat utters
with the letters M-E-O-W... blind men see more
with their agility to think than cat's with their
utterance of a meow...
i know: an onomatopoeia...
                              but i guess that also conjures
up a correspondence to character...
petted animals build a character off of the person
petting them... herded animal, farmed animals
are different: if there's a "problem" of numbers
then i assure myself: cows have no personality,
they're no petted beasts... ergo?
they return to the godhead of cows...
and i close the lid and never ask Pandora for her
knitting skills... to unravel my closed box
per se explanation... as happened with Beelzebub
and Hey-Zeus of Golgotha becoming the
Lord of Mosquitos... everything ******* vampire-esque
stems from that "metaphor" of this wine is
blood and this water is also wine...
i do know how he managed to get those people
drunk on water...
he wasn't alone in the desert for those 40 days and
40 nights...
nope... if he managed to get people "drunk" on water...
he must have taken them into the desert with him...
imagine not drinking water or eating for a month...
what would happen after those 40 days and nights?
you'd drink a glass of water
and become revived: "resurrected"!
you'd be glad and happy and seemingly drunk...
why? you haven't been drinking water for 40 days!
the moment you drank a little you'd be *******
seemingly drunk! it's the ascetic veil!
everyone should know what it is!

look at me... talking curtains and veils and mirrors...
but it is what it is!
i would be drunk from drinking water
after spending 40 days in the desert without a drip drip
droplet's worth of ease...
******* "mysteries" my ***... i must have been there...
in my sleep... so much so that now that i have a body
and a capacity to dream: i don't dream...
i must have seen what truly happened:
i bypassed the Byzantine grandeur of the choir singing
and said: when a Byzantine forgets that he
was a Greek primo, is the day that...
well... it's a day like any other...

i really don't know what "they" are trying...
even with all their ******* wigs i will not find black
women attractive... all the white girls can have
all the black boys: i too find something attractive about them,
but i can't compensate with the reverse...
i'll settle for... Gypsy... Romanian... Indian...
the odd black girl might spice my thinking up
once in a while... but that's like finding an emerald
in a heap of sand...

hmm! ha ha! me living in Africa... i was actually
thinking about ******* off to Kenya to try
and become a model for an advert... advertising soap...
or custard... since Western Europe is collapsing
like a gecko pretending to me a sloth...
but fair enough, circa London: the whole world is here...
as long as i can keep the mystique of people
thinking i'm this evil person, i'm all for it...
i like the idea of being thought as evil:
thinking you're evil: when you're not...
makes life so much more easier...
you don't have to worry about moral grand-standing!
you have no superiority "complex" over anyone...
you just "nod"... yes, yes yes...
i'm evil... well... better a presupposition of evil
(however much deluded)
than a supposition of good (however much well-intended)...

but in the workplace, mein gott... these horror stories...
these women...
i don't know how they managed it...
she makes her 3rd mistake with this guy:
who doesn't pay her child support...
3 kids, works 6 days a week as a nurse in
a hospital... blah blah...
how many mistakes do you have to make
before you start learning?
Pontius Pilate made it spot on:
a sport of washing your hands clean from:
no... not from being responsible for the self...
rather: meditating on not being responsible for others...
for others' mistakes you would otherwise
not make: i can understand being responsible
being responsible for others who would otherwise
make you responsible...
but not... not when the responsibility is aligned
to: people owning up to their mistakes
you would otherwise could not have made...

Christianity: the bogus focus on attempts of
ownership... own up?! no, oh no no...
so don't own up?! oh no, no no...
what then?!

              Christianity is rife in Africa...
well... a slave religion is befitting to supposed former
slaves... i need to elevate myself beyond this grip
of the emblem of suffering in the form of the crucifix...
let Hebrew be Hebrew and continually overstate
his conundrum with divine intervention
via: it wasn't enough! you didn't give us superpowers!

well... we do have c.c.t.v. in place, not enough?!
**** it... if that's not enough...
no wonder the mass sacrifice...
the breathing of ash into the air...
how much of a divine involvement do you actually
require before you decide to take life
into your own hands?!
how many hands do you have, before you realise
it requires at most, two?!

of course i'm *******!
i'm giggly-*******!
i see specimens weaker than me and i tend to them...
and they like me for that...
a ******* starts snuggling up to me
giving me a hand-job before i realise she was
a shallow **** and i can't get a plum "tattoo" on my pelvic
region from ******* her
and her face contorts in a semi-expression of pain....

but these women with obligations:
i was telling my fellow-co-workers,
before feminism... as my grandfather used to say:
there was something known as
the "bachelors' tax"... they were absolutely
dumb-founded... culturally-appropriate that,
*******...
yeah, single men had to pay extra taxes for
being single!

now?
i have as much "Darwinism" up my *** as i have
in my gob and as much as is allowed in head...
which is as much as my quasi-homosexuality
is ever to be nails harassed with acrylics...

perhaps women outperform the men in...
a load of bolloks...
but at the same time...
sparrow... sparrow: the call for freedom....
i am freed from the expected sanitising obligations
orientating men....

to be men...
                thank you, i most grand thank you...
thank you, thank you, thank you!
you don't even fathom how long
i've been waiting for an age of "irresponsibility"!
thank you!

i listen to these women,
i listen good, and proper...
if i were to pass on this agony...
i'd ask for the girl i was with
to be an iron maiden instrument of torture
before she could attain her status-hood
of being some... ******-Jezebel
of however capsized:
this ship is not going to sink!

                           and all the luck bound
to a barrel that's not floating on the whims
of the sea!

i could write about... how i "trapped" a cat in
my bedroom...
kept the window open... and two mosquitos flew
in...
i would be a sadist... if i had a mythical
tarantula scuttling around the room...
but two mosquitos and a cat...
                that's just a tease...
                  it's not like i once fed two rainbow
trout eyes to this... no... the other cat...
or how i pinched a mosquito by the leg...
and... this... no... the other cat...
gladly gobbled it down...
            after all... i once looked at a spider
scuttle to a freshly painted surface and...
i guess he started drinking it...
          in an absence of retelling the story
of the 1960s and all the drugs...
the catholic school curriculum sentenced us...
to the remote part of the decaying
soviet empire - somewhere in ukraine -
we were warned about... sniffing glue...
and aerosol abuse...
             no mention of l.s.d. or: the rest
of the rainbow...
        but this is not part of the experiment...
i had a while sitting watching the moon...
yesterday's fullness and quicksilver flooding
the stones, the lipid of leaves...
        the metals... all that was missing...
frost... to elevate the quicksilver into
a red carbet walkdown... with that...
very familiar... paparazzi epileptic "flashing"
as the head twould tilt from one aspect
to the next... as the light contorted...

yes yes... the experiment...
to write! to write! what people want!
it's going to be hard...
i guess i'd do it... if i was paid...
  but i'll try... read up some pop pieces and
see if i can fake it, sly fox moi:
stealth myself beneath the gaydar...
and frown at myself... stand stark naked...
this masquerade is but a drop in the already
available ocean of masquerades...
i even thought about dressing up
for halloween for next year...
         me: april 2020...
                     lucky for me i have a face-mask
that doesn't details anything surgical
about it... more like... scorpion / sub-zero
from mortal kombat...
    problem: this beard doesn't help...
i can hijack two bottles of jim beam...
but...                     rat rat rat tat tat...
tic tac toe in a maze of: death's yawn...
             last chance trap: write what people want...
what's easily a digestive biscuit...
no fibre no grit...
                 hell... no point disguising my soon
to be disclosed efforts:
to write what people might like...

       under a pseudonym: anonymous?
generic stuff... but the quest to spot the generic
from the sly authentic...
will prove much harder...

for all the purveyors and connoisseur...
well... not much of the latter
concerning "low view count"...
who is playing this numbers game...
well... those who cite weight loss
via stones and pounds...
if you go down the metric route...
kilograms...
once upon a time... remarkable...
from 101kg down to 78kg...
and no strech-marks...
because... the bicycle because the bicycle...
and some swimming...
toning: exercise but more
the desire to gamble with traffic...
and the wind in your face...

    nothing as suffocating as a gym...
low life - *******... views? 945...
     that's... well... kingdom of the *****...
the kingdom of the crustaceans...
anything in the 100,000 view count is probably
atlantis: humanoid fish replicas
of both fish and man... mermaid and that
meme: top of a fish bottom of a woman...
versus: the obvious choice...

to write: what people want...
harlequin novels?
                    heavy on the rhyme...
rhyme like... kicking a ball against a wall...
superstious amalgamations of echo...
crisp bite into deep-fried stuff...
chewing like an attempt to find imitations
in sawing through wood...
not the sort of incision we'd be looking
for... more like a mutilation of wretched
muscle, bone and sinew...
by hyenas woken from slumber
by a wake of vultures...

   vultures in a group: is a kettle (when in flight)
                                    is a committee (when perched)
                                  is a wake (when feeding)...
perhaps i'm thinking about stealing
the eagle from the romans...
and the crow from the germans...
perhaps... just because... these caron barons
of the bald patch...
   leather monuments of skin's flagelation
                      their crown...
that sort of birth: i have in sight...

but no... it's not exactly a haiku...
it's... an astouding breath of sawdust air...
something to be sniffed when the dust doesn't
settle in the quarry from when
hammer meets the ***** of the incubating
earth of stone...
sand: add pressure... have rock...
ad more pressure: have ore of metal...
consecrate the bones...
             place them inconveniently into
envelopes of addressed: aeons...

but to write what people want... "like"...
i'd have to sift through...
stomach... the commets...
it's so discouraging to entertain these...
bothersome flies...
bought a book... pretended to scribble
on the back of the cover...
the author was nowhere to be seen...
or heard from...

               comments likes: metaphors! beautiful!
thank you!
  blah blah to no end of an etc.
i guess: no point writing anything that...
doesn't escape into the realm of thought...
i try to conjure up something in writing that
would make someone write a comment...
             i like an audience that knows it deserves more
than to pander me...
and i need of it... stitched up lips...
   since all of this: for gratis...
                        no browny points to create
echo chambers and niches...
of the "protected" penship...

  that doesn't imply that i don't want to write
an imitation poem...
without obvious plagiarism...
i just need to find that most melodramatic me...
the cheapest version of me...
i have to imagine myself *******...
what i'll be ******* i'm not exactly sure...
it won't be the words...
the rhymes...
           lack of! god, please! a lack of!
less rhyme more chance to spot beauty
elsewhere... an ****** festival of flowers
with near perfect geometrical replicas...

          is it possible that i care much more
for the anonymity of the reader?
am i like a guilty pleasure...
watching some 1970s italian *******...
eating a bagel with either:
    (a) smoked salmon, cucumber, mayo...
   dill... and that all important rainbow trout caviar?
or be (b) being sloppy... but still the caviar...
and the bagel... and instead:
some tuna and sweetcorn and mayo?

perhaps (c)... jack johnson was the best kept
secret... until he was given things beyond his audience...
and... no jack johnson after he was compared
to be the next bob dylan...
i'm sorry... how was that ever going to happen?
you'd have to like bob dylan in the first place...
and that's not easy...
you'd have to start liking him...
like i did... on an overnight train from
st. petersburg to moscow... to see metallica
play there for the very first time after...
rioting... famously... when: and justice for all...
harvester of sorrow...
and the crowd went mental...
                                       the rest is: history...

if all it took was a car to road-rage across
h'america... it truly requires a train to...
                                            get a thrill for russia...
other places require you walking:
holland...
            since everyone else is cycling to beijing...
and other place require you to cycle... poland...
england... france... i guess germany...
well... plucking one of your eyes out...
and asking a crow to safeguard your soul...
while you would be able to attach a little
camera to its body... that sort of *******...

is caviar a luxury?
          a concentrated fish-oil in a capsule...
it's hardly a chicken egg "luxury"...
nor quiet the abortion...
replicas? those vitamin d capsules...
fish-oil... luxury? depends on whether you enjoy
it... pompous foodstuff:
no need to call the: healthy body = healthy mind
brigade... no slightly pickled brain...
then no inquisitive palette...
i rank baltic herrings among them...
raw... baltic sushi... in a creamy sauce...
or a steak tartar(e)... with... all the trimmings...
the raw yoke... the raw: onion...
gherkins, capers, etc etc.

                    some people... just frown at the idea
of caviar... not to mention blue cheese
and oysters...
   and to think... oysters where the grub
of "gammon" in Dickensian times...
   since then... even gammon was morphed...
"back in the day" it wasn't a racial slur
as much as it was actually more:
******* and... swindler... con-artist ref....
the pickwick papers blah blah... blah...
            only now... oysters... wow! a... luxury!
only if you enjoy eating them...
otherwise? overpriced dogshit...

        i'll concede this point... the version of
existentialism in english... what was started by
the danes and the germans and the russians...
later implemented by the fwench...
english existentialism?
stastistics... psychology... and this...
world of darwin... and the atlas?
blind samson holding yet pulling the pillars
down...
this is anglophonic existentialism...
no gravitation toward: ontology on the grounds
of temporal affairs...
no gravitation toward: ontology on
the grounds of spatial affairs -
  english existentialism: oi! pass the torch, mate!
n'ah mate... we're sending this torch
back in time... to tribal invaders
and our hyper-sensitive exoskeleton
"souls" of hybrid -
the body is both a host and the parasite...
lest we forget the psychiatric evaluation
surgery of the holy trinity of freud...

or far further... krafft von ebbig:
******* was cynical back when
******* was a taboo and ****** for crucifixes:
looks like being aborted was:
rainbow-tinged: as was: this time soon...
why do i like wearing "p.p.e." equipment
akin to face-masks?
finally! i can compete with the islamic
attire of the niqab!
i can finally: bark cat! i can finally:
meow dog! - with less restrictions for
the eyes... ninja brigade: scorpio vs. sub-zero...
it really is the new normal...
now i can think about all the lost
****** recognition technology:
while i pillage... **** and assume:
laughter the new paracetmol...

slaughterhouse gown: a slithering tongue
of a chewed of proposal...
                 nothing like caging time in
bedroom antics of a cult personna of a german
lutheran... who wasn't...
that catholic ***** and a sobering up after
a prince albert antic...
                       gullotine for the slug of: fore!
i says: skinz...
                      skinz and skalpz...
alt.: skinß und skalpß...
                                         otherwise known as:
a steady diet of influenza and toss-***...
back in poland come the fall of
the iron wall...
a tight-knit commuity...
one of us was infected with ospa (smallpox)...
we were exposed to the infected...
and czerwonka (červonka)
                          dysentery...
i missed the measles... (odra)...
                     my immune system was not
exposed to it...
              i guess i'm living in times when...
bubblewrapping works...
                     prime-time "eugenics" of the post-soviet
empire... expose them to... the golden standard...
and if they survive...
god... an ear infection is about as much
of a trivial-***** pain as a toothache...

poland in the 1990s... like mongolia in the 1200s
or whenever those people were given
the scurge of wrath loose buckle of the belt...
that was then... this is nowhere new to now...
happens... when people read
two books like dogma...
1984 fetish and all those televangelist...
no new rats: no room left in the maze...

                 karen oi oi smithy loiters...
scraps the details of her meme haircut...
starts to bleach her *****...
          etc. etc.         and more etc.
                           well... so much for this... supposed...
would be experiment in: "sowering the grapes"...
hardly... where is the wrath and the horse...
required for the plough?!

i'm not the one, who'll pander your parents' indulgences... there were always precuations regarding the extracting of libido into a sanctified act, as there was alway rubber... ******* and you prescribing me a guilt-trip... your parents brought retards into this world, i don't have to bring a ******* thought into it, either!

front page? evil strikes again,
terrorist attacks in barcelona.

page 9?
   down's syndrome husbamd barred from
*** with wife wins £100,000 damages...

can i say, that you, deserve it?
     the day when down syndrome men
are employed in the construction industry,
or in sanitation...
   that's the day when you'll hear
the sound of applause and never hear
the sound of bombs exploding...
  
*******, making cripples out of healthy
people while: pleeeeeeading,
pleeeeeeading for the retards beneath the cross!
**** it, shove them into the sewers,
let's see what happens,
   i'm just tired of what islam already
says,
i'm tired ot the "correct" pronoun
arguments,
  i'm tired of st. thomas' gospel,
i'm tired of transgender "issues"...
   i'm tired...
  thank **** someone has the shortcut
"argument" of detonating a bomb...
i'm just tired of this western "supremacy"...
i can't be bothered
with people making content-economics
of counter arguments...
  it's much more entertaining
eating sweetcorn, or beetroot...

next time you call for a plumber,
ask for a plumber with down syndrome...
i'm sure your toilet will end up
looking lavish, as a *marcel duchamp
"fountain*...
       oh sure sure, take a **** in it...
invite islam and say:
   no! no taboo!
    a bunch of grandparents *******,
**** **** for sure, no taboos...
             well.. you deal with them!
i'm already having a hard time
peeling a pumpkin!

who would have thought, that *******
your cousin, wasn't such a bad
thing, esp. when western society
extended their "fertility"
that only produces down infants.

the evils of *** "work" and
the evils of...
modelling "work"...
learn to ****,
learn to walk,
learn to diet,
learn to fake an ******...
me?
i learned to fake
an ******
with *** "workers"
while tempting myself
to limp **** with
****** *******...
i'm a ****** **** myself...
i once experienced an enforced
monogamy experience...
egyptian ******
read my poker face...
not really...
1 date... suddenly butterflies...
oh yeah,
i deserve whatever fate
comes next...
   i mean...
i'm adolf ******* ******!
every one of me
is adolf ******* ******!
who are you?
adolf...
   who's he?          ******!
cool... party time...
like... that 2000 year old
jesus christ party...
it's only evil among anglo-saxon
women...
what? *** "work"...
in amsterdam:
does anyone travel
to amsterdam for the ****?
really?
anglo-saxon women...
about as much fun
as anyone with a sense
for teasing a hand
for *******
or its extension...
into nonsense,
akin to necrophilia...
   shame from impotence...
said the male version
of the statue...
shame from ignorance...
said the female
version of the statue
making paedohpilia hush hush...
that being said:
there are no
contradictions of freedom...
there's only the equality
of will,
which: is a per se contradiction...
given that:
there is a hierarchy of
power structures...
so... an equality of will,
a plateau of will...
the individual...
doesn't really exist...
if there's a subatance to
debate hierarchy...
what... individual...
what... mouth-piece?
right now?
i'm thinling...
canned tuna,
in sunflower oil,
sweetcorn...
mayo...
    saliva...
          come to think of it...
thank god
i didn't sleep with
any native english speaking
girls...
it's one thing sleeping with
them...
and another...
getting a hard-on from
    all those lectures!
laughter...
   what?
            there is always a time
in any man's life...
when...
            the obedience
to a yawn gives way
and...
      threatening?
        r.s.p.c.a.
gets involved in killing
flies trying to **** their way
into champagne flutes
at Ascot?!
  wow!
         a ******* miracle!

/        ever walk into a polish catholic church
and hear the recitation
         of the recitation of the catholic credo:
   and then look at a video of liberal
                  democracy...
                      on the streets of london?

p.s.

   fair enough, i "forgot" to mention
  sam cooke:
       god only knows i still attempt to enjoy
classical music...
    in that "classical", really invokes
   russian late 19th and early 20th century
compositions?!
   really?! that really is: "classical"?
   not even remotely
   considered as, late-contemporary?

whatever...

    i'm still basking in gregorian /
  byzantine chants of monks' music
   line of "thinking",
      like i'd be, 100+ (support)  prior,
                     enjoying their beer!
because who can't?
   can don a kilt drinking whiskey,
which women won't;
  prove me, prove, prove me
wrong that women enjoy whiskey!
next time we talk
you'll be taking photographs
of "up-skirt"
   english-women on
the streets of leicester...
    with subsequent pakistani
******* taking place...
  
    but hey!
                    i'm pontius pilate attitude
at this point!
   my "rights" weren't defended,
given that i had "any":
   yours?

               you're kidding me, right now,
aren't you?

at this point i don't have
a hammer to utilise
   imitating a *****-driver
            for the screws loose
in this:
   hyper-inflated
              sylvia plath
                   commodity /
                                    tool
                                   of, "society"?

born of the same mother,
                                             are we?

prishtine ****** mother
of god...
                 really?
       much bigger things are happening
than having lifted the iron, "curtain"...

WHO CHANTS?!
SHEEP!
WHEN DO WE
    WANT THEM SLAUGHTERED?!
NOW!
WHO CHANTS?!
   SHEEP!
WHEN...
     B'A'A'H!  (how to i invoke
    an, "out-of-breath",
   "stutter",
                concerning the vowels)...

if they're not
crying about it...
               what's the pause about?
ah! of course...
         en-ter-tain-ment!          

it was always that,
  it wasn't the homosexual criticism
of the plop, allocate of the hair...
    to be honest?
   my ****** hair has taken english
feral features of being:
     can't find a decent turkish barber
outside of Istambul
   in these parts:

   but i can...
            can't find a **** for a compensating
**** of a granny with a can of sardines!

who needs the catholic church
when you can have the streets of london
to provide the, exact, clone of
shoving sheep into a herd and then using
a dog to bark vectors at them?!

         thank god!
        catholic mass in poland and the streets of
the london vicinity?
              can't tell them apart...
the same murmuring, getting louder,
and louder and...
                                ****'s worth of a "soldier"
in a belgian trench,
shooting undigested sweetcorn pellets;

and those fine men:
  had well refined digestive systems!
   why, on earth,
didn't they **** them out,
       as... sharpened, armour piercing?!

- will report: herr register!

then i might as well attempt to take
another ****, and down the next
                   whiskey sharkshooter cocktail:

heavy ratio, my god, what
                      a heavy ratio to master.

if kilt wasn't pseudo-croat in tartan,
and whiskey wasn't an baltic amber
in colour?
   who would (a) wear one,
                        and (b) drink one?
    that's a *******: no-brainer /

edinburgh's prince's street
   fudge instead athenian grey matter
butter... supposing it was thought,
and not spread;

    ****...
    this isn't even supposed to be funny...
i don't understand why i attempt
                                            to make it, "funny".

what this sort of writing will become:
  i do not want to be part of,
    citing
   slave regina, chant of the templars...
considering the fact
that i have, as of yet,
  found, a sung, chant of hospitallers'

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

but i have, just now...

          and it almost immersed me
      with the awe of the hippocratic oath.

10th of November 2021...
winter is nigh...
oh sure: there still remnants of autumn,
it's sickly sweet scent still hangs in
the air...
what a glorious day...
pristine weather, esp. for England...
& for that matter... cycling...
heavy drizzle...
not falling rain: just this...
"membrane"... orb of water in the air...
overcast, gloomy sky...
very much matched to my
melancholic disposition...
t-shirt soaked... shorts... soaked...
shoes... soaked...
it almost looked like i ****** & **** myself...
no matter... beard... wet... hair... wet...
somewhere near Fairlop Waters
peddling like a demon
i laughed & almost cried at the same time...
nothing new:
i could honestly imagine eternity
on a bicycle...
not in a car, not in a harem...
on a bicycle...
hardly taking up responsibilities
associated with Atlas...
but... i could see myself cycling to nowhere
forever... esp. in this glorious...
dreary weather...
just like i could imagine myself
perched vacantly on the windowsill...
with one leg folded & sitting on it...
the other dangling...
drinking, smoking & listening to music
that could best encapsulate the night...
e.g. the theme for gul'dan from
the film adaptation of Warcraft...
mein gott... i remember playing the original:
me & my cousin Martin copied the game
onto... 3"15 floppy disks?
3"15 floppy? is that correct?
   Warcraft or Age of Empires II...
then Total War... Shogun & that second one
with the Viking expansion pack...
stopped at PS1...
recently rekindled by fascination with games...
purely for the... internet dynamic of:
real-life players playing real, life, players...
all those ******* robot, mech, team up...
capture beacons... sort of ****...
well... you can't exactly play chess on your own...
you can... but there's nothing fun about
that sort of a schizoid placebo...
it used to be War Robots...
that game slowed down once too many revisions
took place... & the whole game was sold...
unfair...
so i looked up... Mech Arena...
lucky for me that i don't gamble...
the most i ever gambled with was a borrowed quid
on the weekend matches...
5 results... ensuring both team score...
& the winning team... so looking for results like
3 - 1, 2 - 1... like the odds...
i never really read comic books...
x-men in the 1990s...
Declan Tan! ha ha... he bought me a classy
two part... Batman vs. Alien...
yeah... Declan Tan...
i remember eating a chicken soup at his house...
the kind cooked by Asians...
with sweetcorn...
murky... so no clarity in a chicken broth...
with the addition of...
garlic... charred onion, leek, celery,
celeriac... parsley root, parsley greens..
i hated how he was preferred by the tennis
coach in primary school...
even though i think i gave the teacher a better
match...
come to think of it... once i went
to university tennis became more a spectator
sport... squash was most fun...
tennis is too two dimensional...
obviously squash will not gain the same sort
of traction... no matter...
better for those who play it...
at this point: the world can go **** itself...
sorry... but it clearly can...
i've heard enough to know just about as little
as can be deemed too much...
oddly enough...
but such games when you're playing
real-life opponents...
i couldn't possibly go back to games
with narratives...
with NPC characters...
i'm too entrenched in literature...
i couldn't possibly rekindle a love for...
Final Fantasy VII...
i wonder... metal gear solid II?
was it II? i didn't get Final Fantasy VIII...
not one iota...
Tenchu?
revolutionised gaming... though:
nothing with a narrative...
something to test true skill...
that's fun... & the added bonus of facing...
Goliaths, Daniels & Nimrods...
that's the added bonus...
oh yeah... proper gamer...
on the throne of thrones... i.e. the *******...
pulling out a kasztan... a conker...
- would i consider myself as suffering
from alcoholism?
well... right down the passing of time...
this grandfather, that grandfather...
if you work in a metallurgical industry:
you're going to drink...
i must have inherited the excesses of
their drinking habits...
i don't think i suffer...
reality can become rather
vexing... bothersome... brutally boring...
some people arrive at this conclusion
& cause drama...
i just have to stomach it... grip it, grind it...
******* to the woods or to a graveyard
at night...
drink... subdue my otherwise choked eroticism:
fair enough:
people accommodate...
i have to nuance some things...
put them into a metaphor maiden &
say: ceci n'est pas une pipe,
    ceci est une pipe fer...
                                                            no?
if i can pass life with all these little
intricacies of soap-opera soaking demands...
i can make my own language
more entertaining:
without coming close to a crossword puzzle...
truly... i can make my own language
more entertaining:
without coming close to even beginning
to solve a crossword puzzle...
any mind-game involving numbers:
bring it... crosswords...
****'s sake... something just a tier above
what the thesaurus / encyclopedia are for...
ugh... sober people bother me...
i'm bothered by sobriety...
i can focus on the "methodology" with the summary:
cool as a cucumber...
i can clearly understand the universality
of traffic prerogatives...
come to think of it:
only on the bicycle... entombed...
can i find the most universal questions...
racist? what, like Polacks driving their
new cars don't orientate themselves like
some, Asians?
that they do, they do,
careless Solipsists,
only they own the road...
*******... grrr...
            czarna Madonna,
     czarny anioł,
za każdym razem
ten sam dreszcz
    (black madonna, black angel,
every single time
the same goosebumps)
-  it truly doesn't matter what i write about...
it only matters how i write...
would there be an Adolf without
khaki?
or the SS-mann without his pristine
schwarze?
          then again: i don't really write
about much...
i suffer with a glee...
if i were working in a metallurgy factory...
if i were coming home
to a woman speaking via her ****...
i sometimes find myself peering
into a mirror when no light is available...
the mirror in my soul...
or the mirror i'm focusing my sight into,
rather than at?
talking with my shadow:
thank god you're not a dog worthy of
a leash...
i couldn't possibly drink before a mirror...
how much i love drinking...
i love drinking so much
i ought to have been born a Norwegian
fisherman...
i guess i love drinking more than
i love *******...
i abhor crossword puzzles...

suppose i could write better...
something that might sell...
here... the year 2021...
who needs to sell this...
time echoes...
time yawns...
             space in its own self-compensation
levers the otherwise crude demands...
for the perpetution
of what's to be perpetuated...
i don't need my genes to be furthered...
i'd be lost come the grand-grandchildren...
tigers replicate with identification pointers...
limbs, five fingers...

i call it a furry liver...
i call it a sweating liver...
i call it an empty stomach:
a readily available tongue...

what a title! silence! i'm not even listening to music
whilst composing this
such is the music of sunlight and of silence

it is as if i have been sleeping
in the dusty libraries of Europeans
and ventured
a little bit out

took a lick and eye to tease with Rumi
but then that author was introduced
to me via Promis my highschool "sweetheart"
in her home in Hackney
with two younger brothers and a sister
and a millionaire father
who profited from child-entertainment
exploitation
and it's not as if something isn't playing
on my mind like a movie
because it isn't in my mind
but on my mind
and there is a distinction with the use
of the preposition that
the ancients speakers of tongue
would have not known of
since they compacted prepositions
within the confines of nouns
so from example
from Europe
would be simpler to say European
-an if allowed:
attached to a noun
would conjure the equivalent of the Latin
ex-
               from, out of...

the stalemate of hearts
this is not a Romeo and Juliet
how many times did i face
the mirror today and think to myself:
without this beard i'm a pork chop
that fat neck that ICK of the gluttonous
not but that sort of neck:
genetically not fit for sport teams
not the army either
big fat octopus of a brain

the joke is we are lovers torn apart
by God benevolence
in that i'm 38
and she's 56... or 7...
can't remember and this is Romeo
as surrogate father wannabe

and then a break
- - - - - - - - - - - -
_ - - - - - __ - - - - - -;
- - - .. - . -. - . - . - . . . . -:

Sherbet...
all the way from America
candy packaged goods
it's finally covert-legal
and i need it
to process family
drama my
mother and father have
turned into my grandmother
and granfather
and i'm dating someone
who's my mother's age
could be
could be
if all ready at 18

i swear this is a Comedy of Errors
but there is no resentment
toward life
like that twisted fate-knife
of lovers, young,
tragic, plunging themselves
into the abyss or something
never to return forever them
together blah blah
blah
but what of the comedy of love?

her rigid "christianity"
her rigid knees
but save from kneeling
much more
like a sweetcorn cob juiced
or swiftly ****** off
i mean one genocide her second
upon ******* with
no transparency of materialization
i mean
******* breed holes that *****
fall in
with a yahoo **** of snot phlegm

but that diatribe and the gloves are off
i mean: maintain-check
i was actually given a price tag
maybe not the first but a first
to me: existential price tag
the fact that i was almost Cat-Fishes
Cat-fishing
something i mean by how i employ
AI to filter search engine results
because Google is by now a crude AI
schematic prototype
without: what do we, i, you want
and more about the with of:
if, of, yes, no: availability
scout AI
we lived through 20 years
of the brutal upheaval of Countering Encyclopedia
with Search Engine Winds...
20 years, solid...
but now individualized Search Engine
technology: personalized search engine
dynamics -
covert, underground stuff...
no dark web perversions required:
all clean...

like Sherbet packaged and flown over
from America
i mean this balloon is no peach no joke
no James no Holy Bible
i just feel this need for religious freedom
and the ability to just read
from a reed not ever used
to write
about all the words i should write:
but do, alas, but do,
but at least to clarify some void now pressing
i.e. i'm usually distracted by music
when writing
but this sunlight and this legal: perfectly legal
by packaging not something
a ****** might use like clingfilm
or well: i suppose those seal-up bags
of plastic
then those airtight bags that make the bug of the bud
shrink...

clearly i want the future wife to know
the future mother-in-law
like i know her in so much as i know
what the geriatric exponential mortality
curve looks like
and i'm thinking: before Romeo there
was also Romella: his daughter...
who would never be born but would remain
an intact schizoid personality disorder
for Romeo to battle with
with inflicted punishments not
circumcised not ******* with procreative
purpose into a pleasure **** circus
of now arguing about sneaking in
botox and like
there might be something against it
no...

                let's just say i became tired of
jewelry...
whether wooden rings
whether stainless steel rings
whether ******* CHAMRAS CHUNKIES
or JAHARAS
or whether Aztecan leather and more stainless
steel like
there's gold, silver and steel: equivalent
a comparative literature concerning alchemists...
and in that respect:
can we make a metal so pure to match
gold and silver... and yet with steel
there was no real question of
yes there was no there wasn't yes there was
of turning anything into gold:
by "anything" i am implying ore:
base metal - then imagine that like the folly
of religion
and how simple the Christian folly of religion
is when
it's so amazingly village mantra -
   nothing born from a cosmopolitan hustle
just this safe: works in the countryside:
but not in the big town type of security
but as far as relationships go
there is no denying sexuality
and all this nunnery-fuckery nonsense
this hyper-****** liberal all eternal female
and this hyphened-libual-sexeral

yes... the LIBUAL SEXERAL
my position:
although i do have a birthday
present in the range of: maybe i'll have
a quick 30 minute *******
and supposedly that's like:
the revelation of the psychology of Xerxes
but when little me knows of
little me no-no
and that's the basic proof of reality:
the universality of a toothache
counter the particularity of an apple pie

like the articles:
definitely i.e. nth to the point of closure
coupled with
the indefinitely i.e. nth of a point
                                                    off closure...

or the clucking arifs
yes: the grammarians - grammatician: no no...
but the passage is more relevant
than all the Ezra Pound and Olson
and all the poets put together
represent and i, now, were to be assigned
a bride with no apocryphal liberalism
as to what is perhaps good
reading material
because sanctimony or none
but there's still the case for humanity
and that doesn't necessarily
have to imply a demeaning hierarchy
of usher thus usher them usher versus

                            at least she signed off with:
the end
but no full stop but my i didn't
think she would be this argumentative
and i don't even have a drinking buddy
to talk this one over with so i'm going
to play stupid
and continue with:

well if you don't mind i wouldn't mind
converting to Islam if by thought alone
could salvage some:
whatever, of the remains of: whatever:
credibility
is imbuing me
to not drink the water sourced
in the graveyard so drinking arsenic
from the embalming procedure
i don't think most of those bodies
buried in that cemetery could afford...