ah, enslave without compassion
bound ancestors you must impale
go seek and show no mercy
let those who escape carry the tale

all the sufferers bearing witness
to their ministers spilling their blood
staggered screeches from bleak recesses
regicide plotters bend to the dust

with unmitigated conquest and *******
trample them under your tyranny

slimy enshrinement brings into question
what's divinely lamented for
scatter populations with ruthlessness
let them choose sycophancy or sword

reappoint difficult commanders
for instigation unbroken awaits
kept in frenzy, they whisper confusion
never quite sure of their fate

with unmitigated conquest and *******
trample them under your tyranny

let the cowardly unlock the gates for you
to heroically claim what's inside
crowds you abhor kneeling in wonder
all the world is your ****** bride

punctuate the roads with tollgates
***** monuments to broadcast your name
all your banquet's guests are your enemies
entertain them with one another's shame

with unmitigated conquest and *******
trample them under your tyranny

with unmitigated conquest and *******
trample them under your tyranny
under your tyranny

Mozart, as the easy way out...
to be honest, it's not that it's not that
great... and not because
I'm hardly a snob...
but I'm also hardly a pleb...
but necrophilic sycophancy goes like
this...
a dozen leeches...
stuck to a tapeworm...
    to the current man...
  an eclipse of the genius dawns...
minor composers,
those entrenched in movies...
         a dozen leeches strapped
to a tapeworm,
sycophancy post scriptum...
         which means: the worst kind...
came I with anonymous,
not the subjective I
but the objective I...
    counterfeit strings and
puppeteer, be it closer to sigma
than a soul and... puff...
a damp thing exploding...
like a Pavlov man's eye
drooled off the salivating canine
tip of tongue...
zest, or anticipation of lemon...
or rather a naked corpulance
one might ******* to
appreciate the ***** tasks
of 18th century, woman...
              no go zones are:
Mozart, slums of Vienna...
Malmo, slums of Schveeden...
     every time i hear
an ode to someone dead,
I sometimes think about the ode
as: and may he remain so,
may he remain as dead and dedicated
to no second example akin, ever...
but then again this
necrophilic sycophancy has
a natural utilisation for
the onlooker...
namely the modern concept of
fame...
            if there can be
an art for "art's sake"...
   why can't other areas
be allowed a per se...
an the absurd jack-in-a-box?
******* seems like
a morbid inversion of shying
away from, what becomes of
a woman... the blossoming of
biological mechanisation in
retreat of, the hidden hybrid
manifest in youth...
just a thought...
as ever,  surprised...
beer in hand, a man in middle
age walking door to door giving
out leaflets... suddenly a door
opens and a foot emerges
kicking him in the face...
the sight of...
a ******* rehabilitation
programme...
funny...
              there is no,
rehabilitation programme...
not when there's mob rule...
akin to this spectcle...
imagine, walking down a street,
a man is walking ahead of you,
knocks on a door, and receives
a ******* kick to the head...
******* or no *******...
******* stood his ground
like a copper statue of Joseph...
in Stalingrad.

in my family conversation is seldom thoughtful questioning filled with wonder quiet pauses instead it is sociable banter teasing goading spontaneous gratuitous remarks clever embellishment excessive flattery it is an ancient system passed down patronage pecking order nepotism sycophancy near to impossible for me to be honest in presence of their overwhelming vanity when it comes to family gatherings my voice isn’t very strong my family’s joking squelches my chirp they are each and all more loud sarcastic faster wittier more crude outrageous more funny loud gregarious sanguine Mom embarrasses herself with uncalled for flirtations (her mental state rapidly deteriorating) everyone laughs boisterously they snap kid exaggerate amplify taunt i can hardly get word in i need to repeat myself several times or more to be heard my voice is minor i struggle to tell story they listen politely then rush back into their rowdy repartee i am way too sincere way too naked in my ineptitude my stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen pitch black in front of me voice inside screams please i need help so bad please make it easier i’m lost in all this commotion drama hunger lack of clarity

Chicago 1980 Odysseus always revered cousin Chris is taller tan-skinned handsomer stronger protective of Odysseus knowing he is frivolous liability tags along with Chris and his prosperous trader friends advantaged echelon inherited wealth educated white young men they float above everyone else their tastes in clothes furnishings run Brooks Brothers Burberry Giorgio Armani Ralph Lauren John-Paul Gautier Paul Smith Emile Zegna Salvatore Ferragamo their preference in women run typically blonde large ******* tight butts make-up painted nails they think Odysseus is a freak because he usually chooses females none of them want Odysseus likes skinny girls flat chests glasses he knows he is an extraneous art pet to Chris and his group

Chris joins newly built state of art fitness facility pricey membership accesses all of Chicago’s fast track shakers movers politicians lawyers pretty people Odysseus has his limits he does not have money to join also he dislikes snooty elitism several times Chris invites Odysseus as guest Odysseus feels insecure outsider Chris always includes Odysseus pays for dinners they begin with round of doubles then 2nd round of doubles before glancing at menu Chris drinks Canadian Club on the rocks Odysseus follows they raucously order extravagant meals with appetizers 3rd 4th 5th rounds of doubles after pricey dinner at chic restaurant Chris’s group rendezvous at bar or club they order round of drinks tip lavishly sip drink glare around room leave barely touched drinks walk out with look of disdain they scavenge more bars in search of females or some intangible attraction Odysseus is never certain what they are looking for or what is the source of their contempt each wears black leather jacket carries huge wads of cash $20s $50s $100s folded stuffed in front pockets no wallets or clips

the Red Meat palace or Chang’s Szechwan grill are their favorite restaurants as many as 8 men sit at table pack mentality prevails for dessert course they pull out small brown bottles filled with ******* if it is Friday night Chris’s pad is frequently elected females other arrangements settle bill depart restaurant one night Odysseus arrives early at Chang’s wanders downstairs into women’s boutique salesgirl named Fiona greets him they hit it off he invites her to join him and his hosts upstairs after her shift is done Fiona arrives as dessert is about to be served table of men look desirously at Fiona beams Odysseus and Fiona along with Chris Phil Tom go to Odysseus’s place Fiona is perhaps 22 petite lovely with deep blue eyes set wide apart long eyelashes brown thick hair cut to shoulders high ******* pink ******* fragrance of linden flowers delighted by male attention Fiona ***** fondles each men are quite intoxicated Odysseus and Phil are only capable to sustain erections Odysseus stares mesmerized at Fiona’s extraordinarily swollen ***** she notices his fixation grins blushing men shout commands but in actuality Fiona is in charge reducing each of them to little boys vying for her attention near conclusion she requests they form circle around her ******* on her chest she fondles them touches herself men laugh mockingly as if to compensate for their lack of performance Tom picks up plastic dart gun aims it at Fiona she laughs crawls on all fours Tom fires dart hitting her on **** Phil grabs gun from Tom reloads another dart suddenly it feels like fraternity stunt Odysseus goes along offended by his own complicity to him episode feels more like men having *** with each other than being with a woman telephone rings it is Odysseus’s latest love pursuit she tells him she is on her way over everyone rushes to put on clothes change bed sheets they depart within minutes she arrives finally ready after weeks of romancing to put out for him after that night when Chris and Odysseus get buzzed in bar Chris routinely speaks the line to women have you ever been done by 2 cousins one night at Green River tavern woman squeezes milk from her ****** into shot glass dares cousins to drink Chris laughing turns down her offer Odysseus shoots back shot of milk then takes swig of Irish whiskey cousins go see Billy Idol at Odysseus’s insistence they stand near front stage young girls screaming after show driving home in Chris’s Fiat Spider Chris complains his ears are ringing i don’t know how i’ll be able to work tomorrow Odysseus nods like he hears hollers out window hey little sister shotgun!

Mom and Dad want their son to enjoy fruits of burgeoning affluence they feel certain what they are doing is best for him they rent quarter seat at Chicago Mercantile Exchange they originally promised full seat but they are overextended Odysseus enrolls in trading course he learns to trade Certificates of Deposit and Eurodollars which are recently established markets suddenly Odysseus has lots of cash his parents are dishing out he does not know what he is doing newly launched markets lack investment and fleece young men of their parent’s money his friends surroundings change he loses sight of himself he is a thoroughly incompetent trader bleeding cash scatters money between harebrained panicked trades or ******* girls $1000. wristwatch when Mom and Dad see jewelry they become furious in a way he represents his parent’s design for how to build successful son yet their plan is going dreadfully wrong he wants to stand up speak out against Dad and Mom he is not courageous enough to counter their weight he wants to express with more assurance his passion to pursue painting and writing isn’t fact he graduated from art school evidence enough of his aspirations commodities exchange is last place in the world he belongs Odysseus is risk taker but he is not aggressive or entrepreneurial only lesson he has learned with respect to his parents is how to run away

by all appearances cousin Chris is brilliant trader in reality Chris is hooked up with powerful crooked brokers they use him as their bagman he covers losing trades and is compensated or offsets winning side of profitable trades subsequently dealt his share Chris is not a criminal he stumbles into profit-making situation when certain conditions are flexible to advantages Chris is diligent hard worker the vast sums of money he earns do not distort his personality he is always generous shielding of Odysseus gold trading pit becomes so shady S.E.C. intervenes relinquishing exchange’s contract Chris and his bosses walk away unscathed having made their bundles

Mom and Aunt Rita run social itinerary for family including birthdays holidays all other gatherings where family will meet changes by the minute depending on Mom and Aunt Rita’s caprice checking in by telephone at least an hour before is mandatory arriving at destination Mom and Aunt Rita insist on specific table location seating arrangement it is important they be seen viewed by others at restaurant they never sit near kitchen or washrooms or where there is too much noise light away from drafts who sits next to who is crucial round tables are their favorite preferring backs to wall looking out so they can nod wave Mom rules from proud pedestal Dad upholds chain of command sometimes he irritably gripes Aunt Rita immediately comes to Mom’s defense Dad points finger back off Rita you’re way out of line where do you come up with a remark like that Mom mediates Max that’s enough in a way the sisters are spoiled little girls over-indulged by their father they believe their opinions and tastes are the best most correct everyone in family are subordinate to their no and don’t Mom and Aunt Rita routinely criticize Odysseus’s semantics oppose his observations critical of his clothes conduct they handily misconstrue his comments to mean fodder for their amusement Mom and Aunt Rita’s efforts to keep prim proper decorum cause resentment Odysseus feels constricted by his subservient role in drama of family he fails to understand their care

Odysseus busts out of markets leaving behind alarming debts for family to pay off he feels humiliation disgrace plunges into bottomless sleepless despair hides in house door locked window shutters shut phone rings unanswered hates life willfully wants to destroy himself there is no way out after week Chris comes by to see if he is all right Odysseus is reluctant to let Chris in Chris commands be a man get a grip on yourself Odysseus replies maybe i’m not a man he feels failure shame realizes he has become traitor to himself he wants to look at existence head on embrace it but all he knows are dishonor regret deception he conceives his being has been stolen he wants his life back but knows not how to recover it he feels deep in obligation to Mom and Dad thinks to escape from Chicago but his parent’s control is crushing he wakes late drinks black coffee smokes cigarettes marijuana hangs out alone sky changes from light to dark to light phone rings he reads Nietzsche Sartre frequents ***** Hole punk rock dive several blocks from residence becomes orphan of night drinking drugging

January 5 2011 30 years have passed Chris marries fathers son becomes best father to his child he can be leaves markets in late 80’s Dad dies in ’91 Odysseus leaves Chicago in 1994 he manages to paint some paintings write some words stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen ***** pink gray skies behind pitch black in front sometimes you need to take a step back in order to move forward Mom says she worried enough about money when she was younger and isn’t going to worry about it anymore her entire life she boasted i’m saving for my children but in the end she saved solely for herself Odysseus never learned to stand on his own all he ever wanted is to love and be loved he wonders what will happen next

and i remember going out in london,
seeking bloc party, and a fan-b -
or *****... or sycophancy in practice...
snogging a finnish girl
who did the shadow work for the white
stripes, donning a eisernes kreuz
t-shirt, feeling like: well...
this could work... but it didn't...
ended up in upper-side of what was,
what is, what if of london...
cradling an ex-girlfriend on a bean
bag,
while our hosts did *******
below us...
     and i can only remedy myself,
now, with the memory,
  as vivid as a holocaust denier...
    shaking...
              petrified shaking,
but wholly imbedded by a trust...
              she wasn't something akin
to a size-difference fetish of
   a reverted teddy-bear / pillow,
in my arms...
   standing an astouding 6ft...
                        indian and trans-irish
roots...
                 (one antidote to identity
politico? **** it... spice it up
with terms like afro-saxons)...
                               her shaking...

semi-epileptic,
   but what a sensation, lodged into
a mind that has become purely
memoria cameo theatre...
what am i getting at?

ah!

    the slack boys get playing video games...
hell, i play video games while taking
a ****, on the throne of thrones,
but when i'm mobile?
closed eyes, sitting on a folded leg
on a window-sill,
   eyes, closed, ears armed with
a thumping sound akin to static-x,
"watching" a moo-v...
                did i eat any beef before
the mad cow disease broke down
the blind train of journalism?
    so... i have aspects of a mad cow
disease in me?!
             be and only be:
a relentless *******...

  but boys getting the slack for their
cognitive geography...
            
     but...

    a girl obsessing disney movies,
with her critique?
     apparently the world of boys
isn't colourful enough,
   or: too grey...
              well... we have the noir range...
but before that blossoms,
it's taken down, and has a psychiatric
institution impose its...

wait... **** addiction?
   ever try to alleviate that sort of addiction
by, actually buying a ***** mag.,
from a shop, and not even blushing?
there are alternatives to psychiatry -
i think the slur comes along
the rubric of:            wh     o      r        e:
oh... that fading french hark
within the straitjacket of for...

               huh? not a fork...
               boys are stupid for playing
video games,
  but girls are a o.k. doing disney cartoon
critiques...
    or that story of assorting a pyramid
but not an extending rectangle hierarchy...
        
boys stop playing video games,
girls stop having a fetish for idealistic
cartoons...
                  fair enough?

oh i'm ******...
                   because how can you
grind the one, but not observe the other?
cartoon movies
are video games what
girl is to boy:
                    replica -
                                counter-mimic.

yet... i can still only remember her
shaking body, left, in the *****
of my embrace...
        like i might love a ***** star...
with... the coincidence of:
not allowing a knowledge of
a past...

               it's not that ignorance
is bliss... certain types of ignorance...
simply do not hurt...

                and we woke up in the top
floor (there were only two to begin with)
of the werehouse,
   and with the sunrise, we parted...

she having children, i having the burden
of too many poems -
             the irrational reality of
inverted claustrophobia continually
****** a blank white pixel space
         with my maggoty wordings...
                  
a ***** addiction?
1. go into a shop and buy a mag.
2. watch videos of girls *******
3. watch videos of girls
     giving critique of YA novels
4. **** a lemon in the morning
   after a night of drinking?
5. consider the implanted
  impetus within the confines
of a circumcision?

pre-scriptum:
                no polyglot would experience this sort of "paradox", it's not even a paradox of a "paradox" off a 'paradox', bilingualism has its methodology, as Kant could explain, extracting his methodology off the page into a meticulous day-to-day activity... the sage / if not the clock of Königsberg... i can imagine this obsessive-compulsive mini-rituals that would always escape the throng on a Sunday... the Sunday eucharist wasn't enough for the man, there were so many rituals to take care of, having famously not married, while Kierkegaard having: infamlusly not married... i appreciate their strategy... reading them while also reading Nietzsche, these two gentlemen, by comparison, if not in work, certainly in life gravitate above the popularity of Nietzsche... why? Nietzsche appears as an incel... fan boy, are you? *******... but you need some sort of structure if you're not going to marry... Kant found his daily routine an eternal mass... so many routine daily tasks seemingly mundane to some, can enlarge themselves to become out of proportion pillars of preserving sanity in face of standing before god and a post-life scenario... hell is not so much a place of suffering... i can tell you of the most "mild" form of suffering... an extrovert becoming drunk... constant talking, lack of purpose as in: lack of direction culminating in: lack of concentration, pandemonium is the heaven of a flickering light for a moth... again... this always bewilders me... why did Sisyphus have to drag the stone up the hill? was there some overlooking demon with a whip looking over him? couldn't he just... sit, and concentrate on the stone, create pleasure, from thinking? is that really so odd... i suppose so... given the grand h'american export of the freedom of speech... few people will find pleasure in thinking... Kierkegaard, which Nietzsche didn't read... said: why do people concern themselves with the freedom to speak, when they already possess a freedom to think? is this, me speaking, because it's the internet and it's a public space... surely i don't have an eloquent speech, i speak too quickly, i sometimes mumble, this is an extension of thinking, it's not an invitation to speak... rhetoric is an art designated for people who joked about philosophy and took sophistry seriously... i don't like Nietzsche... i still think of the man as the esteemed bachelor... apparently being freed from women allowed him to write his Critique with the sort of clarity that comes, in a cascading form, at the end, in the methodology of transcendence... which reads, like a page-turner tabloid narrative... once the formalities / difficulties are established... i'm no polyglot though, but i do succumb to some eccentricities... as any entrenched bilingual might... notably linguistics... how there are no diacritical markers in english, but there are: in other latin script based languages of continent europe... how i've never heard of dyslexia outside of the realm of spoken english... how orthography does not exist in the english language, which creates all these silly english questions of: what is reality, what is perception... with no orthography: metaphysics runs rampant... and "another" thing... i really can't read a philosophy book in english, i always have to revert back to my mother tongue, to Polish... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i looked at Plato once in english... the aesthetic is lost on me... but the Irish know of the Slavic aesthetic when it comes to dialogue, i.e.:

(a) the english standard for dialogue weaved into a narrative -
"i want this," she said,
   "as i want that," he said...
(b) the slavic standard for dialogue weaved into
a narrative...
- so?
- what?
- will we try to speak without
   the reiteration of who said what?
- we could.
- no, we should.
smoother... James Joyce noted this,
casual - no point adding descrptions of
how the puppet-master lost power
over his puppets with " " ditto markers of
dialouge of a: he, he really did say...
no, not he, the narrator...

   i simply cannot read the genre of philosophy in english, too much easy access points of pop culture with that umbrella overreach... matrix, memes, darwinism, blah blah... too much focus on images and very little focus on words, esp. etymology, that other component of history that focuses on: a universal application of words, beside status king, or status pauper... both the word bread can succumb to the king's tongue, as to the pauper's... but with an origin story? anything beside **** similis, the monkey, will do me just fine... then again... there's no one strand of monkey to begin with... a bit like looking up your own *** for too long, you decide that there's a coherent, "bigger picture" and it begins with chimp- and ends with -rilla... doesn't anyone else just tire of looking up a monkey *** to peddlestool the importance of darwinism for so long? i mean... at least chemistry is a playground among the science... there's no worry for a beginning... there's only play... no... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i have to read it in Polish... which is also a... january, february, march, april, may, june, july, august, september, october, novermber, december... you'd think i'd be able to recite you the months in my mother tongue... styczeń, luty, marzec, kwiecień, maj, czerwiec, listopad, grudzień... english alphabet? a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, m, n, l, o, p, q, r, s, t, u, v... **** gets scrambled... pointless rubrics... give me the practical! - i've just picked up a copy of Plato's republic... straight away i know that i'm finding my gensus in Plato rather than Aristotle...

    och ty, pijaku z psim pyskiem,
                  a za to z sercem jelenia...

    oh you, drunkard with a dog's snout,
                           nonetheless, with a stag's heart...

again, Nietzsche: Kant is an idiot, Plato is boring...
perhaps in German, for a German,
looking for Germany while roaming parts of Italy...
well... Plato, really seems appealing in
high slavic (western), the conversations breed
a sense of clarity, about fog, about darkness,
or any akin metaphor to boot...
                           between Nietzsche's maxims,
i'll take la Rochefoucauld succinct observations
before i succumb to pop-nietzsche modern
cult meme fucklords...
                          Roger Moore... prime example
of a bachelor, Kant, the same, Kierkegaard...
as for myself? if i married?
  would i still have the same sort of access to new
music, that i currently enjoy?
   for god's sake... i have to fall asleep while
listening to music, if i spend a day without
at least 5 hours of music on the headphones
   i start to lose the plot...
              my drinking is merely a side-note...
a p.s., given that now i'm a reformed drinker?
having cut my dosage in half...
     i'm still a music *****...
   women don't like music junkies...
                   and when my ex- started reading me
a qustionnaire from a russian cosmopolitan
magazine on the train to moscow from
st. petersburg... i thought i was going to shoot
myself in the head...
             perfect girlfriend this,
perfect girlfriend that...
             bob dylan saved me...
        but not for long...
                         women aren't feline...
at least with a cat you can ignore it...
                  he's pretending to be a solipsist and
you pretend to be: caring...
                 food on the table,
a clean litter tray... besides that?
                                                 fuckoffski!
     and i write this from a perspective of endearment,
nothing beats the zenith moments in a hetrosexual
relationship... the odd date...
                 talking impromptu... making food...
***, ***... ***... *** *** ***... ***... ***...
       but the petty arguments...
   the attention to detail...
                   god... anniversaries?
  i don't even celebrate my own birthday!
i fake celebrating christian holidays...
                    today is today, tomorrow:
that's tomorrow's concern...
           o.k. england winning the cricket world cup...
but that's a celebration with a calendar!
it's not regulated by hormones and
the impossibility for nostalgia...
                 i tried the relationship,
i tried the ***...
                       i had to visit a brothel for
the anaesthetic with regards to the past...
  i needed to visit the brothel to also visit
the butchers...
                               i needed to become meat,
to **** meat... and stop concerning myself over looks:
they only brought me trouble...
like i was walking with a "telepathic"
c.c.t.v. crow on my shoulder...
                             so i put on the weight i lost...
and... at that point? it was liberating...
mind you... if you want to lose weight?
  bicycle and swimming... no gym...
fruit for your last meal during the day...
eat anything you want...
  but losing weight? and all that bulimia,
classical roman bulimia:
training the oesophagus with first *******
into the mouth... then with no fingers
down the mouth?
                beauty... is not worth the trouble
when you really tempt yourself with the expansive
temporal canvas...
21 was my peak... after that...
                     voluntary celibacy...
                   a **** here and there...
            but no... it's not for me...
                    i guess i looked up to the right sort
of men... with regards to staying a bachelor...
to be highly invested in something,
   like Kant in a transcendent methodology...
like Kierkegaard invested in the arts...
like Nietzsche invested in waiting for
the fruition of his prophesies...
                      you have to be born to want to live
the simple happy life...
                  the "expected" life...
       the whole Hiob motto of: once taken,
can be regained blah blah...
                        it needs to have trans-generational
breeding involved...
                   a list of expectations...
                social-pressures and for that matter:
intrinsic socially-cohesive-stratification...
i'm a ****** in England...
             and... that puts as much social pressure
on me as... a chihuaha barking does
to an Alsatian's yawn... that's the stereotype...
the smalls dogs bark... the big dogs bite...
                 oh sure, when i visit my grandparents
back "home"... the older generation put
the pressure questions to the test:
even women from Warsaw...
   so where's your girlfriend?
to the old folk i reply: well i can't exactly force
a woman to be with me...
to the women of Warsaw?
   i'm practially a monk...
                        why?
          you don't really want to be aged 21...
forced with a scenario of:
happily dating, presumably reciprocrating trust
with regards to contraception,
being forced to reply to the scenario:
i think i'm pregnant... my my...
   and we were only 6 months apart after
the break-up, living in two different cities...
em...
                     on a lighter note...
what's the most fun you can have in Kenya?
   sitting on the balcony, in the shade...
feeding rascal macaques anything from nuts...
to bags of sugar... you, two macaque monkeys,
one balcony... the indian ocean frothing beyond...
it doesn't require a genius to figure out
what's worth cherishing without having
to feel obliged to the whole of humanity for...
offspring - many already figured this out before me:
you learn to give birth to your self (reflective,
and yes, not yourself - the reflexive)...
   which brings death to having to stand on its head...
... isn't Sisyphus the son of Atlas?
            couldn't Sisyphus just sit beside the stone
and... well yeah: think up the philosopher?

.em... looking back at the british empire, and the loud-mouth former colonial people... by god, i've never seen such leeches, i've never seen a people, so proud of being colonialißed! what's there to be proud of?! looks like in a post-colonial world, these former colonial busy-bodies had to, had to: step up and move their markers for Aladdin being performed in the West End... *******...  never in the history of the world, were post-colonial people endowed with so much pride, the whole m'ah bwee'dish *******... to counter herr zeppelinmann with the pakistani in the p.s. framework of the british empire... rotherham... ring a pakistani blue?! have a guitar on y'ah?! see... i don't like these former colonial states, with their people migrating to england, having their overlord say it now, say it clear bollocking... i don't mind a top hat, tux donning ******* giving me directions... but when a ****- does it?! sorry... i'm so sorry... will you please excuse me?! i just don't like *******, i don't like the sort of people who celebrate being colonial subjects, esp. after the whole post-colonial celebration of "libertion"... i don't like ****** / pakis who have to find their "past" by playing the cricket ball of, "the former" colony! i hate copper skinned ******* of ****- origins! former colonial raj-vizier... how can you breed these sort of people, who find pride in being under colonial power?! the **** didn't understand freedom, only understood it when being subject to its lack?! well... so much for english women... i guess they were only going to go for pakistani grooming gangs... drowning in the ganges... i have as much of jesus christ on the cross in me, as i have plenty and enough of pontius pilate's worth of soap to mind the next few years; never in my life would i have to witness the former colonißed to bribe their way, into an acceptance "speech" methodology... the ****- to fable the englishman for his, "tea"... no conquered people, no colonißed people should ever glorify their conquerers or colonißers... i guess the british achieved a double subversion... why do the ****- (stanis) still play cricket... i don't want to know... i'm new here... but... but... when a ****- attempts to displace a european from europe? that's my breaking point... i don't like being displaced from europe... the next ****- that will? well... the obvious target, a northern english teenager girl readied for grooming. i said! next ****- that tries to displace an european from europe... well... i guess.. given the power of the current politicians... nothing! ha ha!

well, with the e.u. article x, y and z...
herr zensor just flew over
London and dropped a bomb
from his zeppelin,
             because?
         two year ago,
       a teenager, girl, aged 13,
downloaded some materials
regarding self-harm...
              now the english government
is implicating regulations,
it will regulate social media usage,
mind you: ***** 'arry was pushing
the agenda all along...
   never mind the competent users...
just tackle the problem
with the addicts...
    oh look: no ******, no alcohol...
ms. amber: i'm sorry, we've failed,
we punched "the agenda"
of a blank canvas too far,
    we're going to have to double down,
for a while, so we can just
survive and have this sort
of a punching-bag of a blank
canvas readied for us...
               so the government will come
in and regulate,
       come on, 13 years old,
but the rising queer epidemic of
premature depression in the youth?
    while the parents do not
implement internet safety
   for their children,
        no block filters...
                like blocking pornographic
sites,
      so the infiltration came
            from within the supposed
safety-net sites?
           ****... i was exposed to
rotten.com by word of mouth at
school...
                           just when the internet
launched with that whole
dial-up modem,
    chris rock in lethal weapon
moment talking about old telephones...
and people bemoaned e.u.
articles...
         there have to be consequences...
people should / companies
should be taken into account...
     what about the *******
  who sold me chemically enhanced
marijuana?
            well of course:
   better a guilty man walk free,
than an innocent man become imprisoned...
that logic is still kinda flimsy
for me...
                 i don't know why...
   but it just is...
    surely there are parental filters
for what a child can and cannot see
on the internet...
                 when i was first exposed
to horse on woman *******?
       em...
         is there anything honest to think
about, at this point?
          maybe that's why i decided
to "ghost" around 200 fwends on fb.,
i figured...
        **** this pseudo-voyeurism
of what people want me to see...
    i've invested a decent amount of years
and settled for the 13K poem / doodle count...
and some pictures...
   none of them saved on a personal
drive...
         why would i stash the content,
hide it, when i want people to peruse...
'it's always dark before the dawn',
sorry, i don't know how much
of a ****-******* optimist i have to be...
before a stoic cynicism grinds me
to a halt of:
                   "branching out"...
              i came here for the punching bag
of a blank canvas...
              i never came for the fake
sycophancy or some count of numbers...
i came here, for an outlet...
      it was either this,
                     or a punching bag...
and you almost sense that this whole
farce of "national sovereignty"
is about to be dropped into the *******
and flushed...
       because... it will all become
                             "too inconvenient"...
oh they'll stall... until the european elections
take place...
                   and there's a u.k.
                        (probably the only time
where an N does't come between
vowels)...
                they're wriggling themselves
out... public: 1 vote...
                parliament: i've lost count...
it's not even akin to rats jumping ****,
more like a maggot **** in a pit...
                        that's what a cynic is:
a realist...
                         if i'm wrong, i'm wrong...
but...
              on several occassions
i haven't been wrong...
           and you just have to watch for
that glee in the eyes of channel 4 journalist
anchors...
     i know that glee in the eyes...
it's a glee of hope...
              a sly variation of hope...
               it's also a certainty imbued
               with a certainity-expectation;
thank god i didn't use the video medium...
no passive watchers,
      at least with writing...
certain sacrifices have to be made. / / / / / / / / / /
/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

a "p.s.": well of course i'm not happy
with the news coming from today,
mind you: ever spot a woodland pigeon?
god, aren't they plump?
               bloated *******,
they always seem well fed by the forest...
a pair nested in a tree in my garden,
only yesterday, i picked up two
almost translucent offspring of theirs,
thrown out of the nest,
   the bride and groom
               decided they were sick,
weak...
                  they did look weak...
     death stared back at me,
          what once was animate,
lying there, among the stones, inanimate...
what a strange sight...
            do i believe in god?
            well... tell me...
   what is the driving force that coordinates
hearbeats, the functions of the stomach,
intestines, liver, kidney and lungs?
the categorical imperative split of the brain:
thinking, memory, imagination?
the bank of pathologies?
              tell me, what is the universal
1: nth term functions of the brain / 1 (divided
by 1),
                 the heartbeat / 1,
              the liver's function(s) / 1...
              the stomach's function / 1...
the pancreatic function / 1...
           i sometimes wonder:
  i own bones only in light of the thin
skinned extentsions associated with
fingers and tooes...
   sometimes this sort of thinking helps...
to "fake ignorance",
in order to rediscover awe...
         as if a genesis story...
to be the first...
        you never actually know what you will find...
sometimes there's no point being caged
in all the advancements of knowledge,
of certainity we are presented with
on the secular altar,
            ****! i can't even begin to comprehend
how i managed to clamour out from
beneath the eisenvorhang...
    a brief interlude... and straight back under
the siliziumvorhang...
            i guess i need to sleep the better dues
to pass this day...
           it was expected though,
i was, after all... sending out an S.O.S.,
     wattpad... what is it?
              teens wet silly with poetry
associated with no messy love,
mostly girls...
              YA novelties and novellas...
side projects...
               again: vampires, warewolves,
zombies, blah blah: yawn a year later...
         teen girls: sensitive as
daffodils, but as soon as a presence
comes along: little scheming modliszkas
   (mantises) - since daddy would not
approve...
              i discovered marquis de sade
in my teens: thank **** that i did...
i wished for an exoskeleton,
i moved past it, into lizard skin,
until my skin started resembling
an oyster shell hardness...
                     you snooze, you loße...
i only saw the trilogy once,
in the waterstones of Greenwich Village
in London, when i was doing some roofing
for a housing project...
i only saw the trilogy once...
i only bought Joris-Karl Huysmans's
Là-Bas once... i should have bought
the two other books...
  since i never saw them again...
  unlucky me... having succumbed to the sterotype
of the magpie stealing silver spoons...
the cover...
   artwork by aubrey beardsley:
                        'of neophyte and how the black art
was revealed to him by the fiend Asomuel'
   (the pall mall magazine, june 1893)...
on amazon.com you either get a chance
to purchase this book, or:
Against Nature (a rabours)...
    but there's a trilogy behind Là-Bas...
zee fwench: sorry, and not sorry,
the english can be grand poets,
but when it comes to prose?
                they're not even sniffing
the toes of the french...
                what happened to woodland pigeon
coos today?  wattpad.com,
2015...             the same for me...
an outright ban... because some girl
decided to be offended by me cutting off
a conversation with her: wish her a good life...
and i really out so much effort into that page...
zip it shrimpy: cut off, little richard
on the guillotine... cut!
                well... i was clued into
the world of 'olapoesía.com,
           hallopoesia.com
                       sveikidzeja.com (lithuanian...
dzieje? happenings, events, in ******)...
          and just my luck...
      leave a harmless comment in an in-group,
in a hive?
              how the nazis were not exactly
mongols, or the first christians who
burned down the library of alexandria,
when notre dame burned...
      when the blitz of london...
and how st. paul's "miraculously" survived...
and i said: i'm pretty sure the people
in command said to the luftwaffe squadron
about to bomb london:
you drop a single bomb on st. paul's:
firing squad...
           they were nazis: but sure as ****
they weren't the people of the siberian steppe!
so hellopoetry.com,
  2019, suspension from may until december 2019...
but unlike wattpad...
  i still have my account!
   and guess who's digging trenches, right now?
poetfreak.com and minds.com are
step-overs...
why did i delete my 200+ fwends off of
facebook.com and reduced it to
3 random strangers?
          eh?
                   as much as i abhor darwinism
poking its head through to give
every single existential explanation...
i have to side with darwinism on this point:
a defensive modus operandi...
lie low...
          pretend to be dead...
                   i knew the censorship storm
was coming back in 2015...
and this current banning of woodland pigeon
coos banning?
     i'm sort of happy...
but not for the sort of reasons stemming
from the ban...
     i can finally spread the "love"!
           i finally know what it feels like,
for someone who liked my work...
         being cut off from my content...
frankly... it feels great!
                   i can finally entertain my perspective
with a pinch of empathy...
sympathy is already here:
since it happened to me back in 2015,
and in early 2019...
         now for the 3rd time lucky
on the platforms i already mentioned...
but like this hindu woman said to me...
1st time is an honest mistake,
2nd time is a lesson in learning...
3rd time? there's nothing for you to learn...
and that's of course in reverse:
of me being banned.
                         after all...
if marquis de sade is still with us?!
                 marquis de sade...
                              i knew herr zensor was
coming...           but i didn't exactly
expect to climb from under the iron curtain,
to be draped over with the silicon curtain...
and these people know they're taking away
our former playground,
our youth center,
                       well...
                           but at least i didn't make
passive content akin to a video...
         if they really want to ban me a third
time...
       i'm glad someone took the effort
to read my work...
   saves them the time ageing toward granny
age, resorting to binging on harlequin
romance novels.

p.s.

you've actually caught me in my berserker
drinking mode... i'll just spew...
and spew as i must, i never expected
the "useful idiots" to comply to what my thinking
didn't prescribe them to do...
even hegel once pointed out:
something about 3D chess,
a thinking man, with pawns of willing
actors... i never liked hegel...

                  hegel has become too much
of a crucifix, a bookmark,
of what and where, "things" went wrong...
i hate bookmarked people...
kant isn't bookmarked...
         all the slander that nietzsche offered him,
as some repetitive jargon booster,
with the sort of a bachelor lifestyle
he greatly admired: rooted in Königsberg...
****** worked like clockwork...
his predictability was the great deception...
forget shuffling ideas and whatever
like a northern semite...
weren't the vikings the semites
of the north? restless creatures,
constantly displaced? weren't they?

mind you... eh...
     you know how many necromancers
actually exist?
   you ever read a book by jean-paul sartre?
james joyce? stendhal? dumas?
sienkiewicz?
      you sure you're not
a necromancer?
                it's not an exactly
illustrious title to hold...
             when reading the books
of the departed, aren't you invoking
their living presence, into the current storm
of affairs?
  sure as **** it's not a spectacular "title"
to hold, is it?
           to think: one is more likely
to cite the dead, having "risen" from
their grave, that one is to make
   "compensations" with the living...
   when journalism ****** politics...
and the sort of admired journalism,
akin to all the president's men...
died...
                a slower death than the traversing
speed of a snail...
   like that other quote beside
hegel:         the terrible...
                   has already happened.
the holocaust, chernobyl...
   that has already happened...
               awaiting what could ever be
worse: is but akin to the sword of Democles...
it's hanging in the air,
   blood-thirty,
  like the talking heads of
the french aristocracy, once the guillotine
chop happens... gagging for "free speech"
in a basket...
what is mary antoinette just said:
let them have croissants?!
    fat fake cake binges would...
with a snap of the fingers... be over...
still... the english crumpet...
      tyson fury vs. manny pacquiao
    (the obvious choice of crumpet,
and the croissant getting battered...
akin to a french toast,
               soaked in beaten eggs)...

you read any book by a dead person,
you're a necromancer...
             i'm a necromancer...
                 you're a necromancer...
the dead arrive at your head,
have a ******* with your thinking,
then leave,
you continue,
   in your own right,
and in their right: of mutating their
original thought...
          that lost ambition of narrative,
transcending any and all
moral 'oughts...
                    try me after an hour
spent with a ******* doing nothing
but kissing her:
just, because, "on a whim",
i forgot to trim my ***** hair...
                stealing kisses from prostitutes
isn't exactly easy...
all that pretty woman dogma...
     **** above a kiss...
          well... "yeah"... in reality?
                   i'm thinking about three things
right now... growing a heard long enough
to reach my heart...
   bonsai: in both the tree botanical form
and a feline form of a shrunken tiger
akin to a maine **** cat...
   and a pagoda...
                      don't ask me why...
i'm good at su doku puzzles... mahjong...
really **** on the crossword puzzle scale...
hence? random words just enter my mind
and i need an ars poetica impromptu
to lodge them into.

p.p.s.
i already know what the inquiring man would
or could ever do with a child,
to inquire about his own development as
a child, to find the: dot dot dot the missing
answers, to see for himself as he developed
into an adult, or, worse, to project his own failings
onto the child, child genius tiger mums team
alpha-bravo... child prodigy gehennah...
it's almost a psychological fetish for some,
to bind oneself to the canvas of a child,
better off with a cat, or a dog if that's your
"thing"... at least you won't be hurting anyone...
worse still: the marquis de sade ******
scenario... i still have memories from when
i was 4 years old... Ganesha must be looking
over me: the stereotype? elephants' memory,
which is as long as its trunk...
      "conundrum": if an adult male can fathom
his child: himself at the age of 4...
if he can fathom a metaphorical foetus,
why would he have to procreate,
to produce a d.n.a. mongrel to satiate his
curiosity further?
      besides that... if society was once overtly
religious, moralistic...
today's society is overly-psychologised...
i hate psychological stereotypes,
everyone is this part-time hobby-psychologist...
             i don't exactly require a biological
part-replica of myself to preserve at least
one thought with origin and end within
the confines of my self...
       i'm not exactly prone to utter patriachal
proverbs that encompass whole ethnic groups...
maxims or categorical imperatives
cater for individuals...
                   not the masses...
i'd have to be a patriarch to utter proverbs as
a way to gather the brood of my own
sow and subsequent harvest...
to be so obscure,
    to be so... concerned with lineage...
                   you have to be born with the facets
of necessarily ensuring that future generations
are to make the same mistakes...
           that's why i would never trust western
neo-atheism... d.n.a. as the only future blah blah...
         sure... if you can lodge a thought
into d.n.a. and receive the token of finding both
self and consciousness within such claustrophic automaton confines,
"somewhere down the line"...
      much older generations would have told you...
that's in the fables, the mythos, the temporal crux
and crossroads... time doesn't give a donkey's *******
about your "rational", scientific materialism's worth
of continuum...
                         etc.

only one word prompted me: szło,  i.e. as it went...
urgh... phobias for slavs.... she was drininking tango...
(strachy na lachy, piła tango; czarna bandera! i or spanish y,
janosik! hula huj! niby, oby, nie prawda).
ugh, i sat there, on the throne, with my **** eager,
i felt sick more about a ******* relationship than the actual
taboo infested act... family via ****, what a dross!
back to level 1 of art, heterosexual, and onan,
                it was alway going to be
akin to history, and the caurosel... bilinigual "dyslexia" -
carousel... kabbalah in the moment, loss
of fixation on the tetragrammaton...
and i woke up today, fiddling with my hands
like a blind buddha...
that handsignal he is understood to "wave"
about in statue form, how the ring finger
bends and touches the thumb's nail...
and that's to represent a family,
index woman, middle man, pinky a child...
and why we use acronym base
for putting on a ring onto the ring finger,
touching the tip of thumb,
meaning Caesar said: all good...
outside the coliseum...
so that's what blind buddha said...
and like i already said,
in the future philosophers were sellers
of dictionaries, and lawyers were
sellers of thesarus rex...
you mention the dinosaurs,
and i'm supposed to say: you're the lucky un.
i drank in order to remember
that i must forget...
but still my previous life was flashing
before my eyes...
like i was about to engage in
re-imitating it... a *******'s load of hope
groping the eyes of those who,
stranded in the desert, suggested an oasis...
as the title suggest: always about
cliche, about a faux pas... and yes:
an opera...
  i want to be the linguistic orginating in
chemistry, seems i am,
how the english tongue took to
late christainity, the un-orthodox mention
of st. thomas' gospel unearthed from
an egyptian desert... 30 miles south of Cairo...
or so so...
            i might like to read an existential
novel of the children bound to feminism
and i.v.f., and how horrid it was to live
with your parents, and economy,
   and how the shame came,
in pakistani format...
                 just thinking...
my **** said much more 30 minutes prior,
but the i.v.f. narrative and how our nature
was dislodged by our power to overcome
our foundations, and still people died
in earthquakes and tsunamis...
                 but indeed, szło:
how it went...
                and thus my reason to give it ***...
like learning french, masculine and feminine forms,
of the said word,
  szła = she went; szedł = he was dasein / walked,
ergo revision szła = he was dasein...
   and that's the reason i didn't really
love my russian girlfriend, she said
polish was primarily defined by
   ш ш ш, i said huш, she said: шut up!
   the last love and the only and the end, of a concept
and matrimony to fiction.
let's deal with realities... play marbles,
talk about gambling and gamble...
**** it all away... flip coins and
do whatever is necessary, having found love
is rare more than a peacock feather for a quill,
and let's just, grow up.
every, single, time, that jewish ghetto freak
of a god comes up, an all encompassing word,
that can encompass mere noun, from mere sound,
from mere onomatopoeia, into a verb,
   a lament configuration that just encrusts itself
into the concept of a noumenon...
past terms, present terms, future terms...
and sexuality...
  szła шedł szło...
     three sexes, one, the last, neutral...
               and when psychology comes along to play
the game of anthropology you'll say
what i said... she dasein, he dasein,
   it, the world, happened...
                             and that's a thank you
to a philosopher of lore (20th century) for being
able to complicate my life, and
   celebrate the ghetto god of Jews...
  nah, they can keep the crucifix and their
Judas reward like altars...
  all that gold needs the stink of prayer
and sycophancy... like they do in Russia:
priest stands before the altar, reads an orthodox
verse, his back against the people kneeling
behind him, as the depiction of Judas
in the scenario of the last supper...
and you can't even sit and listen to the choir
doing a rendition of Bach... some church
attendant tells you to not sit...
and appreciate the choir...
"modern" Russia for you...
   what's with this cult of modernity?
we are living in times where modernity is cult,
it's nothing but cult, or the limit...
modernity is a cult of journalists...
they're almost anti-darwinist in their expression...
poetry, poetry has to, attack journalism...
i see no other way to go about it...
   marriage... hmmph! шło, how it went...
well... it went like this:
siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak...
chłop powiedział.... i to było tak:
   an idiot mongolian played the imaginary
harmonica doing motorboat with
his lips and moving his index finger
up and down against the "slur" of excess phlegm...
(a woman was sowing poppies,
she didn't know how,
a man said: like this... and both became
Glaswegian ****** junkies to "feel" good)...
   i broke up with that russian hyenna
just before she embarked into m.d.m.a.,
yes, i'm a happily alcoholic concept of
sanity, for what sanity's worth looking
at other people claim their rites of passage
beyond religion, beyond anything,
as said: only choice, and subsequent regrets
and joviality: if prominent on the faces
of some you encounter in the fudge of
modern grey matter / area.
i can only say that this current transgender
movement is almost as prominent as
what's inherent in the english language,
how words like table, chair...
pineapple, do not have gender in the language
per se, there's no masculine or feminine
conceptualisation of simple things,
someone who's french might say
a chair has male qualities,
   and a table has feminine qualities...
it's subtle... refined to a very slight
           chance of spotting a variation of spelling...
e.g. шło (how it went), and the two variations,
one for man (шedł), and one for woman (шła)...
evidently the anglophone language has too
much money, and even more spare time,
to actually un-poeticize the nag hammadi library...
i mean, everyone is killing poetry,
but this sort of ****** is beyond any worth...
the genesis of this story begins with
psychiatry and the 1960s, primarily a Scot,
a Glaswegian, r. d. laing, coming straight out
of c. g. jung.... freud is for rich people and
the only oedipus: Wilhelm II of german...
it must be a luxury, it can't be anything but,
it must be a luxury to have dreams
and to also have an interpretation of them,
right? they call them the snowflakes generation...
i just call them freud-tards with their toothpicks
for trees forests of "depth".
looking at the way jesus is depicted, with a
void black halo around him:
i'm suspecting we wasn't a big dreamer,
to lift the veil: an imitation of Joseph,
seven lean years, seven bountiful...
   and how so few of us actually have a rich
dream life... we don't, not everyone is invited
to lead such a double life...
  some do, and they have recurrent dreams,
well, one dream over and over and... what a boring life.
i dream sometimes, but it looks like scrambled eggs,
too many: dreams within dreams...
   then again, if i followed the diagnostics of
w. burroughs, i'd probably feel embodied in dreams
if i shot up ******... or smoked it...
  but i prefer a rested body anyway.
so yeah, a bit quasi-etymological,
those "idiosyncratic" but rather specific words:
шło... id.... that it went / how it went...
  and so it went...
english doesn't have a *** in language,
   nothing to decipher whether a man or woman uses
it, unless you congest it with
   excess pronoun shrapnel...
          excess pronoun and conjunction shrapnel...
the only thing that resembles saxon in post-Hastings
french viking invasion are the way chemical
nouns reflect what a german makes of
antidote to claustrophobia:
                  habbeschneizergoo, or thereabouts.
let's just say: language as theory.
   this is mine... what do you have?
ah... right... a concrete heart, an empirical heart...
does that allow counter defining an origin
not related to the big bang, but a meow or a woof
of knuckling a tree... i.e. extracting sounds
and later appropriating the invocation of sound
to later state pointless mantra, and otherwise
read more, see less?
   if we're talking sounds, or the big bang
is my idea of the φoνoς, look... the ancients
beginning with Heraclitus had logos...
or word, until that concept became ghetto...
now we have so much music, and that one
defining "sound"... i say φoνoς, to counter
the science of the bang... and yeah, it's apparently "big"...
just learn a science to a degree level,
and then relax unlearning it writing philosophy...
you just might spontaneously write poetry,
     and gave a libido of a Solomon, but no harem;
gents! handshakes! handshakes!

Herein, laying dormant,
    veils of reposed
      secrecy 'neath
       foamy seascapes'
              frenetic passages,
languishing below
   sunken treasures'
     false facades of
        reticently rolling
            shrouded bluffs,
 shaded of darkly impetuous
        hued blood in
          unceremoniously
             bound convolutions,
a million ancient
     undisclosed shadows hidden,
     notwithstanding combative
        rumblings of death's
         unwelcome sycophancy,
depths of centuries'
         old unparalleled stories,
 whence hush-hush
       undulatory influx
          of defiant upsurges
            and turbulence reside,
     that of which only the
          winds of indiscretion,
                 clandestine spirits
                      & gods could surmise


*...as  privileged moons watch over amaranthine skeletons

you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...

     if you didn't know, already.

it's either called: watching that technicolour
masterpiece... bell, book & candle,
kim or kimberley or some other from 1958...
and all those photographs
of the empire state building being
constructed...
without a single bungee jumper
or those suicide nets from the neck and bones
of the sweater shops of Corono alias
Mexico and some third party pardons
for the: better placed bet of
the faking it capitol...
and now i know that sargon of akkad
has welsh roots...
which means absolutely nothing...
it also means:
root i... be the don of man
in the girth of the 'oods!
massive attack's - live with me video:
which is twice better than the prodigy's
slap my ***** up...
namely how ******* up
trajectory hulk and spewing leaves you...
when ***** is done solo...
and when all of whiskey is drank
without an honest remark for patron:
ms. amber...
and there's no vinyl record shop
in the vicinity...
a high street where you only get to buy
mobile phones, trackers,
shoes, cheapshit clotches...
pardon coffees and lazy doughnuts
without ever having ever sniffed
living yeast...
always that packaged dry load of ****...
live with me:
i do hope you never jest at the platonic
offer of dreaming even
a sly measure of it coming true...
nothing i write is allowed to fall onto /
into a pillow...
i can imagine a pillow to be a mouth
to be a guillotine i imagine
sleep to be: the precursor ****** of lingering
death...
that bottle of cider and a shot of whiskers?
if there's anything akin to double-dutch...
there's the double-irish...
which is... ugly h'orange...
oh why so ranging Dublin away from
Boston, massachusetts;
privy... come... let's talk...
why is it that the green in the three colours
if Ireland... even the green looks...
"cheap"? it's not the sort of green of Italy...
and sure as ****...
that orange isn't the red of Italy...
and that orange is oh so much cheaper
than... the house of orange and the sinking -
red light district of amsterdam...

- the pleasure always comes
with the final tilt of the glug and...
what's to be made kosher of a goat...
or a ram...
the levite fiddly-bits of orthodoxy
baronage: when any variant of prayer
ensues...

no, i can be associated with the crazy cat ladies...
i too own two maine **** cats...
one's headlining as being over 10kg in... "size"...
another is teasing 7kg...
and i vacuum the house every, single day...
i'm truly like an adolf ****** when it comes
to the house being free from it ever
being believed to be a house
that entertain petting cats...

i hate fur... two cats you can keep:
but as long as the house, you sweep...
is... bound to a frequence of once a day...
every day...
ecce diem: omni diem...
that's how i will only allow myself
to keep cats, if the house is vacuumed and freed
from fur, every, single, day...
perhaps i'm asthmatic with a jealous nose
that always wants to inquire
the heights of mountains and the pitfalls
of valleys... and clarifying noble waters
of the spring...

and with a 3rd of a worth of a chemistry's
degree... one could almost wish
to be... this sort of willing...
to be a trashman...
and plot the next leibniz move of never
making it to going out...

my tidy... my tidy...
the best jobs with the least amount
of contact with people playing
sycophancy and the crab and tapeworm
roulette / violin...
if that's... obviously an utopian dream
outside of canada... sign me up!

it's still ***** orange to me...
even the green look *****...
just like: what do you call french navy?
certainly not romanian blue...
the swedish yella is not the romanian
gold-tinge primark yellow...
just saying...

not even excuses for bulgarian green
can match with italian green...
austria is no better when it comes
to red...
the germans have a red in their flag...
that... somehow works
with the red and yellow...
which the belgians seem to lack...
even though they share the same colours...

dutch orange is never really orange:
except when it comes to a football match...
by then the irish orange is
aenemic... to say the least...
and the green is pale...
perhaps because it is left to contrast
with orange rather than red...
and only the french match up to "blue"
of the union jack...
but only thanks to the navy teasing purple
of st. andrew's cross flag of:
tease Midlothian!

the cider is 'ere... the scotch is 'ere...
what do i have to complain about?
complain... complain...
no... nothing... really.

.at this point, in this particular instance, Kant's philosophy doesn't really matter, but it does matter for whatever particulars are left within it for the individual, rather than: labour freely, come and be bed entertainment compulsively sort of man... you can really listen of a psychologist talk, a philosopher will not talk, a psychiatrist will such listen and spoon you with pharma beige and bitter pills... or if you're lucky? porcelain and pale daffodil powder... never mind... the priest will spew his usual *******... the ******* will just construct an idea of a conversation with an O, an Oh-nomotopoeia... every woman is beautiful with eyes closed experiencing an ******... but these days Kantian philosophy isn't pop, thanks to Nietzsche calling the great sage of Königsberg an idiot... i never liked psychology... it was always too sophistry-riddled... rhetoric after rhetorical after rhetoric after rhetorical, yadda yadda yadda... regrets to fans of Nietzsche... i quiet like the the königsberg clock - disciplined man - people would wind their clocks when they saw him pass... and he went as far as 40 miles outside of königsberg... that's dedication... that's discipline... so watching this commando "vs." jordan peterson video... the "warrior-philosopher" mentality: sure... ever get taught martial arts by being kicked in the genitals by your tutor? oh yeah... that really makes you engaged in continuing the classes... a martial arts tutor kicks you in the *******: you become as much an enthusiast of the martial arts classes as a sumo wrestler would become on a vegan diet... "warrior-philosopher"... socrates pulled it off, but he was the one asking the question, not bloated in self-"awareness": the monologue... but socrates is a debate worth... or was he just lucky to have survived to ask the right questions? homer saw the battle of troy... and he was... a ***** poet... warrior-philosopher my ***... what are these, "current" wars about? they're about proxy... proxy wars are not worth fighting... iraq? proxy war. afghanistan? proxy war. libya? proxy war. one proxy after another... warrior at the gym... the actual warriors? on the other side? yeah: they don't gym bro... and they're not custard pie in the face mince meat cuddled together for a bicep... when wars made, sense... you'd get conscripted... but this current pro army classes, coming back into civilian class... oh what tales they must speak... warrior-philosopher mentalities gravitating their egos for a perfect psychology lunch... warrior in a proxy war? dog in a kennel... KA-GA-NIEC (muzzle - chomąto - horse collar - klapki - horse blinders)... i too might have been a... co-mann-do'h... kick in the ***** when learning martial arts? and no sorry? lying in a foetal position? women do that... i heard one story that a woman killed a policeman by kicking him in the testicles... but when a man does to a 15 year old? what martial art is there to learn? well there's only one "martial art"... kick every man in the testicles... for a man to do such to another man... the art became worthless in terms of a learning credibility... even in boxing there are rules about: below the belt... ******* western teachers of eastern combat... so i chose Kant... promenade of perfected timing... orientating himself like a shy sun to each and everyday... mind you: want to lose weight? two options... bicycle or swimming... or the gym: if you want to partake in plastic surgery from the excesses of skin... but exercise is so, so ******* mundane... you'd be better off chopping a tree down or mawing the lawn.

i don't want love to guide my way,
i've seen love being prophetic
concerning man,
and fill man with extinction,
but when i've seen the other card dealing
and have it filled with fear,
i felt a wizened presence of
either my self or god, and i don't
want love to guide my way:
i want fear to guide my treading missing
hoof trot, i want fear to guide me,
whether a fear of god or a fear of loneliness,
i want fear to empower me, for fear will,
i will not ask love for slaughter on the crucifix
i will not ask love for strength when love
gives nil, i will ask fear for all my coordinate
double denial strengths,
that whatever love comes my way
fears me not, even if i should be proud to deny it,
even if i fear it, make love not my guardian
my beacon, not my lighthouse or mountain,
let my guardian and beacon be the fear of constantly
wavering waves of the seas in the ***** of a hurricane:
and my halo will then replicate your ego
concerned with love, simplified by love unfelt
by me in your ideal of love thought: best expressed
by poetics of your kept gentle knees never knelt on.
Kant represented:        0 = negation,
ergo?              1 = sanction
   binary: yes no yes no no yes yes yes no no yes...
how simple: if not beside a coin-flip?
and the man isn't even recited that often
in modern talking points...
good: that gives me a head starts...
like a tortoise being chased by an Achilles...
i appreciate the fact that he's so under-represented,
denied access to a future (reading)
of his work...
  i love the sycophancy surrounding
Nietzsche: it appears that readings of certain
works have reached a cul de sac moment
of saturation, that...
what remains? are pedagogy rubrics of
regurgitation alligned to synthesis a priori etc.,
good to know, really good to know...
but now the intellectual output is not as
important as what the intellectual output
coincides with... i.e. the lived experience
of the thinger... the asceticism that
overpowered the aesthetic...
or rather... how a life dedicated to an asceticism
bore the fruit of an intellectual aesthetic
mostly associated with Kant.

Silence twists around my throat,
serpentine in the inky light,
as the paint sticks
and dries beneath my fingernails.

Ideas claw at my solar plexus
threatening sycophancy
treason and madness
in a world of stale passion
and stuttering ignorance.

They wake up and shower,
****, shave, apply the mask
with painstaking detail.
They die before they reach thirty
and go on walking about
as if they know the secret
to eternal bliss-
it's possible that they do,
after all.

I mean, consider the alternative-
an artist haunted by the colors
that live in a winter sunrise,
a nomad reaching for no one
as he chases the sun
across mercurial landscapes,
a writer living through ink
because there's no other way
to quell the storms,
a human shedding expectations
for beautiful things
that will always be broken.

only last night, having reach my fill of ms. amber bathing in a ginger ale jacuzzi - chasing a choir boy castrato cat waking me four times i had to utter in frustration (which i later noted): mortality is such an insufficient measure of things... i would be ****** if i didn't make a quick ode to Ovid's ****** poems... to truly appreciate performing oral *** on a woman? i suggest you first appreciate eating oysters... not oysters: no, having performed oral ***, looking at the moon in the quicksilver sheen to see your face all slobbered... an appreciation of eating oysters, is most certainly, a precursor to performing oral *** on a woman... beside:

wenn alles weisheit wurden zu kommen auf Indien -
if all wisdom were to come from India,

needless to say - these ancients still treat
greece as some sort of ongoing "experiment" -
that nothing, absolutely nothing:
is viable -
they might as well call it the still to progess
into a foundation state of affairs -
the west is seen as fickle -
a thought it not so much entrenched
and passed on, as it is made vogue one
generation - disappearing for some time:
before reappearing...

no proverbs ever came from the west:
nothing akin to:
besser ein spatz im ihr hand -
als ein taube auf ihr dach -
i just like how it sounds in german...
the original reads:
lepiej wróbel w ręce - niż gołąb na dachu
(better a sparrow in your hand,
than a dove upon your roof)...

legit. proverb: hold the simpler joys
in your hand, closest to you,
that look up and think that a dove
upon your roof will bring peace to
your household...

as long as everyone under the roof
has simple and "immediate" joys in hand
close to the heart...
peace is not tempted by spotting
a dove on your roof...

here's another one... and i was looking and
i was looking and i was looking
and i thought i couldn't find some,
some sort of alternative...
if only Ted Bundy went down this route...
then again... if he did...
he would have started jerking off
to fine art... the detail of the tongues,
the ***** and the ability to filter
out what is happening outside the erotica...
what?
i will drill this example in...
every, single, time:
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...

perhaps i am that old,
before free internet *******...
some of us had the ***** and the rose cheeks
to walk into a newsagent and pick
up a pornomag...

well... "*****" - more like...
sculptor's digest... or...
**** subject pages for that lesson
you'd love to take at school
where you could paint a ****...
oh hell: paint all the flowers in the world...
flower: covert: female genitals...
all the flowers in the world...
but not the torso and the mystery
of the bellybutton
nor the cow-sacks of Surabhi...
after all... they started multiplying in number
and you couldn't, after a while,
tell apart what it was about them...
peach on the front,
peach on the back...
and what would a hindu know of
the tetragrammaton?
when H... is a surd in their language?

i tried almost everything...
but upon my final discovery...
hell... it just started making sense...
glory-hole... the dreaded lesbian genre...
once in a brothel i was asked if
i wanted 2 hours with her,
or an hour with her and her friend,
i replied: i still don't know what i'm
going to do with you...
i don't live by the motto:
the world is divided into men
who have slept with two women
and a the men who haven't...

give me two legs of chicken...
i'll know what to do...
a woman can multitask...
after all... if a muslim gets 72 virgins...
a woman is guaranteed her
3 greyhounds... one for each 'ole!
'ere comes the charging bull...

der wesheit auf Indien:
nothing reflexive about it -
just enough to ease you into a mirror
of non-reflection:
i.e. something to destroy the self
with and incorporate -
a billionth part of yourself...
wisdom worthy of meditation -
but not exactly stretching
into a labyrinth of thought -
call it all you like:
clumsy thinking,
spaghetti alleys and cul de sacs,
the labyrinth -
why complicate life, which is already
complicated, by complicating thought?
after all: what is thought?
the first question of the θ-moral?
the th'ought i?

oh don't get me wrong...
that an elephant shouldn't exactly pair
up to a rabbit in the kama sutra:
spot on...

even i became tired of the meat-market...
after a while i just felt like a butcher
looking at cuts of meat...
cam-girls: i don't remember paying...
the genres... god... i probably looked
at 5 in total...
hello exotica... ebony...
glory-hole... ****...
the horrid affair of the extremes -
lars von trier nymphomaniac
confessions type of genres...
hell... i even tried ******...
but still: the meat-market...

well no point looking for alternatives
in the islamic world...
unless you are really ***** for
eyes in the kneeling position
while looking to and from the heavens
of a catholic confessional booth...

some variant of softcore ****:
latex whole body suits...
girls in gimp suits with a zipper
for a genital opening...

but still the meat market...
****? only to laugh at the farts...
but still... the meat-market...
and still the all pervading sense of voyeurism!
that's not enough, it wasn't enough to begin with,
then i'd come across articles
in legit. newspapers (the times)
about how women tend to watch
more violent *******...

for a while i entertained the no-man's land
affair with girls ******* videos...
**** became a little bit weird
when i turned that upside down
and focused on: pregnant women
*******...
and... i just borrowed something from
a 1976 novel by Michael Crichton:
eaters of the dead -
better known as the Wendol in the film
the 13th warrior -
where the diety was a pregnant woman...
i played into that fantasy...
which coincided with the time
i ****** off ******* for 2 hours
and imagined:
well... i guess... ******* are off limits
to men when a woman has a baby...
and she's actually breastfeeding...
i couldn't imagine this fantasy to live
beyond that date of conception
through to having finished breastfeeding
a child... but... for a while...
i gave careful attention...
to what it would be like...
with a lactating woman...

that was the zenith of my exploration...
eh... *** parties? filmed in those shabby
intz intz horrid dance music scenes?
n'ah... i wanted something more...
more... archetypical...
something teasing the forbidden...
but not forbidden as such...
something akin to:
having to convince her to **** while
on her period, in a bath,
wearing a ******: to ease, the, cramps!

ugh... czech house party *** scenes...
or those scenes from prague,
the inverted glory-holes...
what you see are cubicles
of women's legs sticking out...
again:
too much imagination already given...
none of this was akin to
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...
everything was moving,
i was nothing more than a ******,
always the 5th wheel of the wagon...
somehow, yeah, "somehow" necessary...
even if a woman was ******* 3 at the same time,
there was the fourth... watching...
via the 5th one: filming...

hyper-geometry of a triangle...

what was essentially missing?
accents of eroticism - subtlety -
to have an image in your mind - quiet static -
and to allow your imagination to seep in...
all the other western alternatives
were nothing but meat-markets / slaughterhouses...
none of your imagination could seep in...
not even with the first pornomags
of my teen years...
protruding ******* like the eyes
of judge doom from: who framed roget rabbit...
which always begged the question...
very much akin to the question
posed by Milan Kundera in:
the unbearable lightness of being...
**** with your eyes closed...
or your eyes open?

the sensuality of worms and all those
murky beings: primordial *** -
eyes closed -

      eyes open? the seemingly anti-sensual
inconvenience of mammalian
reproduction - with no pain upon giving
birth: what pleasure upon reaching an ******?
asked the wind of a savannah to its inhabitants.

Islam still wasn't helping -
i could never understand how a woman's eyes
were the most ****** aspect of a woman's body...
perhaps her hands...
well if you have hands like i have...
what you have in your pants isn't exactly
an ego-trip... you're holding a sparrow...
she's holding a bulging ribcage of an albatros!
you can hold a basketball with one hand...
and she is... a knuckle short of your four...
why wouldn't a woman's hands be the most
****** aspect of her body...
after all... a non-discriminatory plateau:
all are the hands of a a geisha...

geisha... islamic eroticism still isn't working...
hair... hair...
a lot of people complain if they have
a fly / a hair in their soup when served
in a restaurant... jokes on me...
i have a beard and the hairs of the beard
are the same consistency of ***** hair...
so i basically have ***** on my face...
ha ha...
why hair? what's so ****** about hair?
what if i tell you that as women age...
almost all of them decide for the pixie girl look -
and what if i told you that...
ifindwomenwithshorthairintheiryouththezenithoferotica?
ag­ain... islam isn't helping...


.a thing of genuine beauty, is always predicated upon transcendent value of inquiry... to transcend the common, daily, human squabbles... it becomes areligous... while daily human squabbles continue, what has been lost, is an item of transcendence, it was never to be a focus of some "parasitical" sycophancy of tourism... there's nothing to be celebrated, and... nothing much to be awed by either.

well, what did the ottoman turks
do to the hagia sophia?
they converted it,
but they weren't philistines
to the point,
   or say, a bunch rabid mongols
from the 13th century
in Bagdad...
                      like:
                     and why didn't
the nazis not destroy certain valuable
cultural cruxes?
   that picture of st. paul's cathedral
during the blitz...
  yes, the english might think
it was a symbol of defiance...
but i'm pretty ******* sure
that if one luftwaffe bomber dropped
something on st. paul's,
they'd return home and be
shot by a firing squad...
            they might have been
nazis... but they weren't philistines...
even the ottomans...
süleymaniye was so jealous
of the byzantine building
that he had to commission the construction
of a building to match-up
to the hagia sophia in some
way...
           again:
                  prank call buddha...
tell him they're also
tearing down idols in northern europe
with their phallus cult
           of the large wooden
***** carved from a tree.
what's that?        you yell'ah?
i mean: in the heyday
   of scandinavian black metal...
varg vikernes... 'nuf' said.

_________
a

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
perhaps i should be more familiar
with black literature... perhaps will alexander
is not enough... oh god: i just stepped into
a reverse psychology faux pas...

  again...

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
but clearly there aren't...
for years and years i sat on the tube as it rolled
between leytonstone and leyton...
they now have a grand mount... for the new graves...
prior to... the graveyard stretched...
almost the entire distance from one station
of the central line to the next...

i did plan to go into london before
lying myself to sleep... once upon a time i would
go all the way... into tourist central...
i'd go and do the usual... tate modern...
tate national...
i even dressed myself for the occassion...
well... "dressed"...
does a dog change its fur...
i had to capture the sensation of wearing
the same clothes for long enough...
washing, personal hygiene -
change of t-shirts... of course...
but today i was going to buy myself some
jazz records...

i couldn't just hop on the bus (when was
the last time i used a bus -
rather the centipede of my own legs?
you never forget to swim or ride a bicycle -
when was the the last time
i used the tube?) -  and just head to the shop...

that would be so boring...
and i'm not a female to window-shop either...
what ensured a diversion?
immaculate timing...
   walking up to the bus stop...
a girl... probably 16... sitting and waiting...
bus pulls up... i gesticulate: ladies first...
and she gives me a smile...

that decided... winter! it's winter!
and Freya's daughter took a needle's eye
and brought me before the altar of my original
whim...
jumped on the 66 bus and then on
the central line... newbury park,
gants hill, redbridge, wanstead,
leytonstone... leyton... and onto st. patrick's
roman catholic cemetary...

just before spring comes...
to find the absolute nadir of winter -
perhaps autumn is when romance novels
are written about death...
but i much prefer graveyard in winter...
i would have gone further into london:
but those jazz vinyls are not going
to buy themselves...
plus... i find graveyards... well...
hardly morbid... i like them because...
esp. the roman catholic ones...
have statues... and...
well... who wouldn't want to see
a museum of statues: al fresco!

reiteration - because i can't mumble
or metaphor myself or make this succinct...
graveyards are museums al fresco...
whoever was the sculptor... of the crude stone...
the second artist... the weatherer has also
done his bit... coy wind... a splattering
of "paint" with rain...
the... basking in the sun...
the drop in temperature...
i like to see the "other" artist at work...
give me this one life's span a peek into
the deeds of this almost eternal sculpture
baron...

whether god or: death personified...
               the theological god can return to his
origins story... the sun the moon the stars
the: what came first the chicken or the egg...
what came first... the spiderweb or the spider?
pointless hamsterwheel questions:
a priori this... a posteriori that...
museums are stuffy... they might hold
under their roof... in pristine vacuum...
the Elgin marbles... but i want to visit a museum
that breathes! these gravestone statues...
breathe! if you're not careful enough...
you might see a wandering eye...
as if someone transcendent has touched them...

graveyards: museums al fresco...
and in winter? and it's your typical sodden...
overcast... london clepsydra of drool and dire
and the scent of wet dog fair...
and there is no chance to intoxicate yourself
with the decomposition of autumn's fall:
banquet of leaves... and that sickly sweet
botanical scent of decay...
it's winter and raindrops become piercing
needles of sensation...
you wouldn't even dare... to blink.
                    
- of course i had to take a few photographs...
it would be weird if i didn't...
once upon a time even death was due
man's concern for beauty...
in these grave statues... whether it's a 1000th
jesus or some obscure saint...
whatever it was... it was certainly worth...
imitating a ******... getting all wet with
goosebumps on the ******* sack tickling you...
no hard-on... whenever you'd want
to gasp and spew some variation whale
sonar: morse onomatopoeia: coy cooing an ooh...

so back on the tube and to the record store...
****... need to ****...
to the pub and half a pint of guinness...
again: a woman's smile is so up-lifting...
and that surprise as you're only there for half
a pint... up the stairs to the toilet and...
out the pub...

the thing about buying jazz records...
why would i buy a gramaphone...
if i didn't intend to only buy jazz records for it?
why buy, modern vinyl?
the thing about buying jazz records...
you need to know a few names...
you always look at the... "starring"...
i know there's another term for what i'm
looking for... "starring" is easy...
and it's in no way related to the word:
repetroire... but it is french etymologically:
although mutated from: ensemble...

i'm pretty sure there is an english equivalent
to ensemble: which is not "starring"...
accompanied by...
                 that sort of mid-way introductory
statement by the vocalist...
on the piano we have...
on the guitar we have... and each band member
does a little accent impromptu:
accent impromptu: which is not a full-on
hair-metal solo 2 hour slow bbq **** chicken
strutting send-off into the stratosphere...

never mind... can't a white guy just appreciate
jazz... i'm tired of the sycophants of classical music...
including charles bukowski...
the japanese have covered this sycophancy
and elevated it to virtuosity of the drum-kit
monkey... fair play...
but jazz never allows you to... over-think...
anything... a head without thought
and all that sea of feel...
logic is over-rated... i like my cushion of
the antithesis of descartes: res cogitans in that
i find pleasure... in res vanus...
- and classical music is over-thought...
to me at least... it's a falling piano of notes
and no breather... no feel for bass drums or pause...
for an accent of sorts...
no real idiosyncracy - beside the idiosyncracy
of the oeuvre...

jazz says to me: i don't want to over-think:
not-thinking...
it's as simple as that... i hardly think a cat
allows that onomatopoeia: meow...
i hardly think a dog allows that onomatopoeia:
bark / woof... to enter and govern his mind...
this imitation of being: surrounded
by beings with complex prompts and
a car-wreck of sounding verbiage...
hardly a woof or a meow to be "deconstructed"
in those furry-heads of theirs...
how does a sax sound in my head...
when i can't hear a sax outside of it...
i'm not a composer... letters would congest
the sponge... soapy water instead
of live-young evian... pristine cool and crisp...

drums and all their ambience...
when there's the intro by the horn...
before the protagonist sax takes over...
sly little horn...
jazz... i don't like to over-think not-thinking...
classical music?
i tend to over-think not-thinking...
with jazz i can never over-think not-thinking...
because: feelz... and what-not...
it's hardly an armchair of apathy...
it's hardly a sofa of tolerance...
it's a cushion for a head that sometimes
feels like a tonne of lead...
and the air doesn't become water: "magically"
to even wish for a sinking sensation...
blurps of bubbles no...
there's only the almighty fall or an explosion...

feelz... (this will be addressed...
the Z... in german... that i do promise...)

- again, not again, again... i can't buy the same old
stale **** narrative behind the slave trade...
there's a jack of spades in here somewhere...
no blacks in h'america: no jazz...
it's that simple... god forbid where i'd be at if
i were to still praise the suffocating confines
of classical music...
this is classical music to me...
this is... everything that's suffocating about
Bach's innovative polyphony...
polyphony sure... but what jazz allows and
what classical music doesn't...
it's hardly called a solo if only the piano gets
it... a chopin or a liszt...
any... famous violinists sharing the stage
with the pianists... the piano is the only instrument
that's allowed a solo: proper...
but in jazz... you can get all the instruments
in the ensemble given a fair share...
no africans coming over to h'america...
no jazz... instead:
       pirouettes in corsets and crinolines!
ugh...
               liberated into: chain-smoking
and giggling why pulling an imaginary chain
saying: choo! choo! this train has nowhere
to stop... beside a tomorrow...
and should tomorrow come...
                                      that's still only a gamble!

jazz because there is no singing...
            well... 'my funny valentine'... chet baker...
better known on screen as ethan hawke...
astronaut... thespian... at large chameleon...
dat dere: the disappointment from
having chamelon leather shoes...
that will riddle... should ever a pair be made...
no fluorescence no change in the weather...
just at the time of the killing...
would the pigment remain: "thus desired"?
well... i don't know what the muslims
and the yids have against pork...
i'm pretty sure most standards of belts
and shoes are... made from pork skin...
which is... well... leather...
perhaps they should don the orthodox ***
yom kippur statement of running
into the synagogue wearing sneakers!

just saying... porky pink and whitey sneaked
in with a guitar and a piano...
sonny clark also tip-toed on the black
and white cascade...
                                  interludes from absence...
or the myth of the custard -
               it boils like a voice unearthed from
mud... tinged with surprises of a canary...
gloating glutton of the stove...
               jazz in the kitchen,
jazz in the bedroom... jazz in the living room...
jazz sitting up, jazz sitting down,
jazz drinking a hop-heavy lager...
jazz sober...
                                        it's not jazz:
because i live in new york and i have a feel
for the romance with frank o'hara and all things
gay and otherwise cosmopolitan...
romford is probably like hull...
and i'm the antithesis of phil larkin...
my verse is more scribbles and scrabble than
his neat: your parents ****** you...

jazz is a rebellion akin to 'my parents ****** me'
when they fed me a classical music diet
as a child... rock guns 'n' roses grunge and punk
were minor rebellions: teasing pop...
but nothing to match to the diet of classical music
ingested early on in life...
                          jazz was and is, though...

- when buy a jazz record... you have to look for
the usual suspects...
sometimes you look what the lead protagonist
is playing... after hearing Grachan Moncur III's
avant-garde... i'm not convinced...
but there is a list of the usual suspects...
evolution just reminded me of everything
i didn't like about eric dolphy's out to lunch...
but there's a list of usual suspects...

'i can't believe i almost bought a vinyl of a c.d.
i already own... money jungle by duke ellington...
good that i didn't...'

the usual suspects of an ensemble alternating:
eric dolphy, paul chambers, freddie hubbard,
sonny clark, joe chambers, herbie hancock,
john coltraine, sonny rollins, kenny burnell,
art blakey...            wayne shorter...
what would probably become equivalent to...
sitting through a ****** movie...
but otherwise finding the end-credits more
entertaining... the ******-movie of what's not
remembered as that golden fleece of mid-20th
century nostalgia...
i once placed my nostalgia in h'american
hippy culture... come to think of it...
i guess my nostalgia is: the coming out of
1950s america and no quiet going the full mile
into beatnik poetry recitations with jazz
in the background...
no one would **** the poets:
instead the jazz musicians...
                     somewhere cowering under
an umbrella sown together from moth wings...
assuring himself a lightbulb was
the sun... evidently no formality of language
genesis: dear sir / madam
exodus: yours sincerely / yours faithfully...
and all of this... in between?

                         shoes shoes...
two jazz records is hardly an extravagance...
these days...
oliver nelson - the blues and the abstract truth...
sonny rollins - the bridge (jim hall on guitar)...
well... because sonny rollins and: colossus...
24 quid...
                why am i supposed to remember
the slave trade... am i a native of these parts?
i thought i was the "dumb ******" industrial n-----
joke? don't shoot the messanger...
do i look like i've just killed your grandma'
by playing a ******* harmonica?
not everyone is going to be listening to rap...
what jazz gave rap... isn't gonna give
that easily for me to ingest... *****-nilly...
sonny rollins... looks like a well attired man...
even if it is 1963... perhaps my own ambitions are lax...
i'm the son that wouldn't become
his father... and he was always the son
that was going to overshadow his father...
and that leaves me with my paternal grandfather...
all that remains to be said...
by my maternal grandfather: we has a hard worker...
well... stick that as an epitaph for
anyone without an epitaph on their grave...
i'm sure those dates will look like
candy dripping from a ******* rainbow
any day soon!

thighs, legs in total, comic sanskirt of the brains
between the gallows of *******....
and hands: all those geisha hands...
are the erotica canvas for my no-thrills
genocide *****-and-tic canvas work of a tissue...
because... even if i "cant get any"...
any is just as plenty...
i shared a moment in a supermarket with
a guy who was buying...
wine and bread... honest to god...
he was buying wine and bread...
i missed the last supper and that magic
of a philosopher's stone of:
the wood of all metaphors...
that great driftwood of history...
the postage stamp of contemp. african
get-togethers in europe...

                       an eric dolphy or an bobby hutcherson
on cymbals... "vibes"
   ("vibes" could also be made synonymous
with a prog rock artifact...
a Hammond E-112 ***** too)
                            could work...
the cymbals or the xylophone or whatever
that elevator muzak attache is...
could work... in synch...
on something like grant green's idle moments...
as forrest gump would have said it...
the gi(t)ar is in symbiosis...
but please no horns no sax...
well... sax ever so slightly...
just below the drums...
most certainly beneath the bass...
keep it clean with the guitar and the piano...
only then... some sort of equilibrium...

otherwise what's 120 quid?
something my hands can touch and the sort
of money that i would never spend:
how much vinyl can a man eat
before he realises... this **** isn't liquorice!
from pocket to pocket...
from hand to hand...
                  i never gave that money 10 quid
short with a box of chocolates or a bunch
of flowers... so i guess...
that's money best swept under the rug
of daily needs... flowers wither and chocolate...
eh... chocolate...
                                it's not the thought
of liquorice when playing a vinyl record on
a gramophone... anise amber anise amber anise...
cinnamon and...
and and and and... the raven hair of
bulgarian prostitutes... fingertips...
if only the tongue could read braille...

       i'd ensure that if i went into a brothel
i'd spend a good ten minutes moving my fingertips
ferocious against a brickwall...
some might say: i wanted to experience
of feeling oysters under my fingertips...
when caressing the otherwise sandpaper of skin...
and time...

beer becomes an elevated circumstance
of some leftover whiskey...
and this... cameo cinema of my memories...
yes... rubbing my fingertips against
a brickwall... before walking into
a brothel...

- the germans have been lying!
they have another "secret" letter in their arsenal...
although they will not outright admit it!
perhaps the ß (eszet) is interchangeable in
younger brother ßaß (saxon) english...
surprise: surpriße!
                
             most of the arabs flock around
the nationalflaggehandelsflaggeparteiflagge...

perhaps there was an S-to-Z-to-S-to-Z
interchange bound to the ß...
aber...

wo alle straßen enden...
                     hört unser weg nicht auf,
wohin wir uns auch wenden,
die Zeit nimmt ihren lauf...

         yep... that german "z"... which is more like...
a "russian" c... a ****** c... most certainly
a wet snare sizzle of... a ... Ц...

   das herц, verbrannt...
                   im schmerц, verbannt...
so цiehen wir verloren durch gas graue
niemandsland.

              then again... that all depends which german
dialect you're talking about...
and that russian spy ц is most certainly missing
upon a: schwarzdeutsche
             richtigerdepflugdeutsche rendition of:
zu...

and that's the compensation dynamic...
i'll reach into the zenith of jazz...
but come into the nadir of german army songs...
i'll squeeze a horn but then
come and drop a stone dipped in honey
into a hornet's nest...

              perhaps i haven't been the best
tourist when it comes to the concentration camps...
but i have visited the mass graves of the germans
from the first world war around Ypres...
and i have been to the graveyards of the allies...
a sparrow or a robin always seems
to sing each individual german soldier's lot
in the graveyards of the sleeping en masse...
the silence always breaks...
seeing how they were piled up...
                 compared to the individual graves
of the allied soldiers?
it's almost like going to see the end product
of the contracetion camps...
              a heap of bodies readied for a mass grave...

let's not riddle a liking for folk songs into this...
folk songs are non-negotiable details in all of this...
a black man can call another black man
a n-----... well...
i might as well call another white man...
carelessly and with ridicule... a ****...
sorry... hehe... "oops"... a... naцi...
                                                                a нaци...
         beware the german Z given the ß und Ц...
eh... don't mind the S... it's hardly a caron (š) S...
you'd need to compound -sch- into the whole affair...
and still the east germans would write
ich... их... but... somehow make-out to say:
isch... iś... which is not a caron (š) S...
nor saшa...            it's... somewhere "in between":
                                 š   ś
                     via rammstein's ich will...
well... it's not french... so there's no grave S
          to compliment... so... das ist das... yener...
                    
so much for a friday night...
              before the altar of Moloch...
and his resurrection... busy body demon deity
of the abortion clinic...
and these are the old gods united
under the single Mammon facade of the semites...
Moloch is alive and well...
perhaps the babies sacrificed to him
are not still-born or otherwise...
perhaps the strain of the argument from
the conservatives whispered a retort for me
to utter: that each ******* if a microcosm
genocide... i will not utter the name...
call it an elevated sort of superstition...
or rather... i don't have to say the racial
slur... because... i'm pandering to
                                   porцellanmenшen -
that's two russians "spies" in already...
                                       regarding the иɐzᴉ...
at what point...
                                     under what authority...
it's a **** good metaphor though...
"metaphor"...
          that Moloch is awake once more...
as a deity in his own right -
no longer the "fallen angel" in the pantheon
of semitic gods brought to heed...
before ha-shem.

the virus is raging: or so we're told -
i don't really mind whether we're told anything
anymore - i can finally come to grips
with the male version of the niqab:
just fine...

                              but once the virus impregnated:
whether our actual bodies or...
whether this: that be the detached from the herd
mind - whatever cull word: or choice of....

but... islam stopped: doing its business of
a revival... a revival... mind you...
that only involved the sunnis...
  it's like: the ******* would rather sweep their
whole schism under the magic carpet...
no... they wouldn't: they: sunnis...
wouldn't attack the sh'ites... the persians:
yeah... good luck with that...
the persians would bow before...
a bunch of camel jockeys:
  the library of baghdad...
              and: a library with only one book...
quasi-poetry: that damns poetry...

but i guess a book that takes hold of the heart
is much more than a book
that agitates the mind...
the bible: agitates the mind...
**** knows what it does to the heart...
but i'm sure to know that...
a proper adhan...
   can leave me in tears...
like...

but when i hear: da pacem domine...
or anything! anything resembling teuotnic songs
of the conquest of the baltic states:
too bad for merry ol' german...
having converted the prussians...
the prussians...
well: the revenge of the pagans over
their christian overlords...
or some **** like that: otherwise a different cover...
so much so that...
the polacks stood a chance with the kashubians...
and the silesians...
mongrel tongue they are much at home
than if ruled over by prussians...

jihad: a war of reclaiming land...
never a war of intrusion...
you reclaim all you have lost:
but you do not claim new land...
it's not a holy war beside:
what has to occur naturally: the growth of
an idea: that the enzyme is a sword...
well: no one's perfect...

but given there's a break from
fetish fashisto islamism...
     turban afghan / saudi sunni **** flinging
pajamas... well...
what about the hugo boss uniforms you
promised with all that oil money you ******
away on yachts and ****** that:
those ****** were waiting for you in jannah?!

of course i'm teasing the mamluk and
the janissary...
if you fed me... adhans... poetry...
and then: speeding to modern times...
played me as this egyptian stranger...
in amsterdam: architecture student... genius doodler...
an afternoon with him... beers and some jojo-and-mary...
in amsterdam... or... the previous afternoon
and these two slobs: germans...
and he gave me a song to listen to...
how the world dwarfed...
le trio joubran - masar...

i have nothing in christianity: a headache...
i tried judaism: too complicated...
linguistic avenues: herr zensor ha-shem:
the name of: kether: keter -
crown... you can only be so smart...
before: ehyeh asher ehyeh just because the same
bogus "trip" of pickled intellect you
have with that trinity and: fraction...

da pacem domine...
            muhammad can start wearing a niqab
at this moment... i don't even know whether
a proselyte status is teasing me:
i can't tame a heart: esp. my own...
but seeing the clear reduction of islamic
intrusion into christian affairs of:
yawn... usury? iconoclasm?
                        contra: the former...

you sold me on the romance of mamluk and
jannisary... because i'm fat from being tired
from what christianity has to offer...
honestly... even if there was a nag hammadi
library revival of the gnostic section...
or... 100 years from now...
there was news about the fate of isaiah
and the dead-sea-scrolls...

                 the muslims are not attacking...
by the grace of god...
some authoritarian mouthpiece from their shitpile
of clueless stopped talking...
and the adhan could be listened to: again...
and rumi minimalism could be read:
sufism! could be digested...

my mind can wander calendars... days and decades...
dreams and deja vus...
it can cross boundaries inanimate object
territory and turn to all things fuzzy
in the realm of hallucinations:
denial, doubt, conviction
in one way or another...
fractions of synonyms...

i cherish the one libra... the heart's:
yes....           or...                      no...
then there's the christianity that borrows too much
from its: "cultured" / cultivated paganism...
whether greek or trojan (alias latin)...
i'm tired of these arguments...
they're either claustrophobic (without any
evidence of clarifying workable space)....
trash: recycling matter... per-haps...

                      hoarder peoples of the world
"unite"... no... i'm "bored" and just exhausted
by the secular arguments or how
the trinity fraction ingenuity should work...
when islam is stsarting to turn lazy...
i figured: the romance associated with
the mamluk and the janissary is open, yes?

sufism and the indivisible one?
the vector: the north: point north vector -
the frankenstein moster clue: that's still open?
will i meet the drawfish turks along the way...
and they'll come up with...
canons for ****-open the walls
of constantinople?

      ever convert someone by way of
shrivelling up their testicles or crucifying their
mind on the altar of phobias?
if you don't have the heart...
you might as well be gagging for an achilles' heel...
if that!
christianity and pop cult. secularism...
i'm bored of worshipping
a static demigod...

        how many demigods came...
preceding? but this demigod is the fraction
celebration: the intellectual *******
of people who: cared not for...
the ferris wheel, etc.
                    
         rome is no more!
holy rome is no more: the "*****" achieved its purpose...
citing Casimir III also helped...
the nomads moved: jumped over the pond...
spider patience as released into
the city-scape: well of course... well done!
applause!

the question "question" is never asked...
given... hasn't christianity become a quasi-polytheism?
how many denominations?
too little gods: and the one...
as a fraction... can just keep on giving:
yet another preceding 0 of: the divided fraction
booth...

         the schism within islam was hardly
an intellectual:
all these "byzantine" precursor details...
such a bothersome spectacle for all:
that mind the bureucratic shoo! shoo!
              an intellectual affair:
                       worldly affairs... Ali was promised x...
the caliphs decided on project y...
the integrity of "the prophets" word:
while aging... senile yet still *******
a fresh cherub-and-orange akin to...
                 Khadija **** Khuwaylid still on my mind...
in praise of older women...

according to malcolm X and: cassius clay...
islam knows no race...
since... christian fwench... catholic...
spaniard catholic: later christian...
german retro: swiss...
anglican fudge-packers...
             yes... islam is not a nationality:
nor is it a race...
then again: what is croat... former yuogoslav...
or greek...
when... ahem... all that matters is...
h'american patriotism?!
if only the h'americans can be patriotic...
only the 50 shingles and twin barons
of stripes is on the ready...
the h'americans are: patriotic!
the rest of us are being nationalistic:
cousin-******-******!
can't islam come via Sarajevo and...
become... an escape plan?

   Ezra Pound might have cited:
the former proud stance of christianity against
usury... and now...
loan-sharks...
   i could be a slave to islam because
i could finally escape the "lost" e in
a ethnic grouping that has me locked in with...
the st. petersburg crowd...
the slavs...         and the germans: are... germs...
east a vowel - prefix at the wrong moment...
thank god that islam is not a people
but an idea...
and i'm burning with it...
without need to make or meet
proper formalities of conversion...
by heart's analogy of the mind's banquet
of the thesaurus...
when will the simple yes...
or the simple no arrive?
i don't know...
                i don't want to know...

after all: will you frequently hear...
of a *** / 'ebrew convert?
no! of course not! it's a... v.i.p. club...
you being a jew is more than an "idea"...
yep... it's exactly "also" a race...
you don't get to bypass all the cousin *******
cousin inbreeding on a whim...
you don't get to be given a "choice"...
while islam readily converts...
new blood...
islam readily converts because...
you were never a chosen within the confines
of the distinct few:
which is nice...
islam readily converts: while christianity willingly
abandons...
why am i looking into a mamluk /
janissary romance novel genre?
will i write one?
do i look like someone to turn a silver
spoon into a ***** and fake
a sigh?

dare i: dare not i: "not i"...
back into the basic structure of words:
back into syllables...
words like: da-je (it's giving)
                           i forget all the other mamas' and
papas'... "lyrics"...
i'm just bored of the exclusivity and
inclusivity of peoples...
mind you: i mind more...
what's that: fidgeting me... irritating me...
such the atom: like the letter abounding
around them...
it's nothing special... it's just: fudge...
and a simple metaphor of concrete and
indigestion to have to... endure...
gorge... digest...

                i'm bored of christianity
because of the ruling "christianity" of h'america...
back to basics: son of sam...
thank god for the atlantic ocean...
some distance... some perspective...
evangelical: denominations of old world
protestantism...
no... all the basics of:
looking at women with "fun" prospects...
joy... what about the joy of a bicycle...
it's like ******* retards claiming:
casper the friendly ghosts and
spiderman were touch-up buddies to sooth...

thank you h'america... send me back
to afghanistan... and pashtun womens' poetry...
too many minutes spent on this insomnia footprint
of the web: i still believe a t.v. and a computer
and internet access should be akin
to resembling a fireplace... fixed locations...
no?
i don't actually mind:
eating a burger and getting a blockjob
like driving a car...
on a smooth motorway...
try the same... and giggling... on horseback...

if i could gonvern myself to establish a matrix
of prayer - rummagings of a lacklustre
of schiphrenia - perhaps...
for all the freedoms "imposed":
and not imposed - shimmy shimmy -
and all that isn't received as: to pass...
restrictions galore...
the smooth shake-me-up...
secular: testicular clean shaven *******
tip of luck when licked: etc.

           yeah... yeah: sign me up for that...
pedestrian safehaven!
the promises of science...
                  the christian day to day...
and the... straitjacket of islam...
or... or... prop-er... PWOPH-EER "judeo-christian":
and some salty Cicero...
and some pepper stiff 'istotle!
                  
   love is... love is: pseudo-echo: his eyes...
and all the little idiosyncracies still alive in me:
that makes me focus on me:
and not on... the expendable you...
     all i want is to focus on these details
without having to infringe on: detailing you...
to what...
                impaled... which has to be
more insufferable than a crucifixion...
but... let's not mind that...

              the detail comes around with:
the civic world is a world that the ancient
romans laid a claim on...
the rest? that the romans didn't lay...
a claim on? fifth partition of poland...
a ****** job over the "question" of iraq...
i'm not this "white" ****-boy's boor...
but that i am: since i'm not his baron.

- all that bob woodward & carl bernstein
achieved... deep-throat alias
of that ninja in m.g.s. PSI...
but what i included... but what jonathan landay
and warren strobel couldn't...
it breaks, the "heart"...
or at least the mind... capable of...

- honestly... i never much appreciated
rembrandt...
but... what wouldn't... otherwise...
a sobering-up sessions of sitting on the edge
of the bed do... otherwise:
better good... than the thus presented...
than... hang-over... looking at prints
of the aging rembrandt...
no... not the zenith... the impeding
nadir...

          would it still be necessary for me
to ingest from l.s.d.?
the lazy strokes of grace-
any other adjective of pompous
sycophancy is open: though... to be added...
no... not because his a well known name...
but because: i never found the sort of
raw beef: or the sort of stomach...

the question of the "question"...
within the realms of the diaspora...
that's a hard "question"...
given the diaspora is... a status quo that...
look at the orthodox yids / hebs
of brooklyn...
they're not leaving and brooklyn isn't...
either... the question of a people
without a diaspora...
is still only a "question"...
like that: MADE IN CHINA... "question"...
i still haved things in my possession that have...
MADE IN HOLLAND...
MADE IN INDIA... MADE IN IRELAND...
hell... even MADE IN BANGLADESH
makes you believe in a higher quality than...
all that CHeap CHequers ***** from
the land of BING JING... and the squirming
dwagon...

ask any thai or any... the chinese are not
the best parts of h'america...
and the worst parts of russia...
and... all the rest: reincarnated horde motto:
mongol...
joke... stinking camel jockeys will
not touch a squat of pork for fear
of the silk road mafia:
yow-eatz the stinking sheepz...
me eatz pork & leather
    me eatz pork & leather...
                                     shoe?! shoe?!

shrimp **** gets a hard-on and there's no
mushroom saxon esq. 1960s mantra...
of toll culture!
               well: shrimp **** is hardly:
a korean sand-bag or a piece of japanese
porcelain skin... whiter than porky-pink
gets handled by haggling over Libya...
and the Spanish... sun... tan!
- it's a good nuance though...
given that... all of the baltic sushi is
ascribed the status of: herring herring herring;
raw... yes... in a gherkin infused
cream... creamy dreams of a less robotic...
less stockholm syndrome... Stockholm...
the museum of the tomb of the Vasa ship...
and all those yachts...
seeing Stockholm... no need to see Oslo...
Helsinki... Copenhagen... seeing St. Petersburg...
i really... really need to see Istambul;
smoled salmon... rye bread...
mayonnaise... cucumber... dill...
rainbow trout caviar...
it would be a luxury... caviar...
if everyone was willing to eat it...
but... given the price... only a few could...
caviar would be a yacht symbol of richness...
no... you want a better summary?
caviar is... marmite...
you either love it... or hate it...
everyone almost everyone:
the greater majority... can stomach...
poultry abortions...
caviar is not a luxury... it's an idiosyncracy;
there's no "acquired" taste...
it's something akin to: the web architecture
a priori in the confines of
'ed... of the spider...
or how... the woodland pigeon builds
a nest... "from thin air"...

             learning to walk...
is so class-A drug... bourgeoisie...
                perhaps there was a russian revolution...
perhaps there was the industrial revolution...
all in all: there was only the french revolution.

Sometimes the searing sharpness of cynicism is required;
The acid, eye -watering lemon zest of fact
Piercing
The soft underbelly
Of platitudes, niceties, clichés, pleasantries and delusions.
The sweet smile offset by the glint in the eye,
The raise of an eyebrow or the hint of a frown
Won't do it.

Slivers of sycophancy stick in the teeth
And globules of gratuitous grovelling make one gag.
Swimming in warm soapsuds makes the skin shrivel
And the body longs for the cold shock of sea and salt.

Slick smoothness sickens like melting ice cream
and pretty politeness can seem
Pretty pointless
In the icy blast of a down turn.
Whipped up enthusiasm is just that -
A lot of hot air.

Oil the wheels, grease the palm, slick back the hair,
Stick on the smile, fix the grin, paint the slap.
Nothing sounds too well held in place;
All ready to slide off, leaving  the raw expression of bewilderment
In the face of reality

sickly in overtures,
and commitment
to hollow compliments:

gives birth to
a rotten fruit,
at its core,

and an unwelcome
stereotype of
unforgiving critique
lost to what could
be a house on firm root,
toward quicksand
stepped,
   and made of the two Adams...
Bryan before Ryan...

      a consistency of compliments
are a hideous half mask
of womeno of a gorgon,
before his death she blasphemes
his presence...
    and all I can envision of her,
is the year,  a dead-lit room
with barely a candelight to
keep company,
a runaway son before a television,
and a daughter with a Pharaoh complex...

i and Joseph could,
     take to Icarus and Menelaus...
hyenas of the graveyard...
    itchy from shadows,
and halving the sun in a guillotine
drool, over a crimson skid of a river,
into a Barkley Wicker-Bucket:
roulette of pork choppers
    with the pupils sly into
     a dominant coordinate
            to relate to.

i can claim to have conjured up an
antithesis to the cartesian
res cogitans -
    i.e. the thinking thing -
   why? because i once could claim
a continuum, ad nauseam narratio -
toward a nauseating narrative -
and it was filled a continual presence
of thought,
  it's hard to imagine one's being
as completely filled with thought -
and no thoughtless action -
take for example exercise -
no person in existence actually has
a coherent thought or, rather a
     cogitans continuum -
           maybe the old flicker of an ego
with a word springs to mind,
but there's never a narrative when engaged
in exercise,
thinking becomes momentarily
non-existent, the body does not gravitate
toward a mind-body dualism...
                    and in this light i took from
buddhism the ides of meditation,
but made adjustments to it,
  this is a burning thought, or rather:
an purposed abstinence from thinking...
      its the mechanised body, at rest,
in the same way a mindless task gravitates
to a blank slate mind where mere thinking
hinders efficiency at a task,
a task that can in turn, become even remotely
pleasurable, given its mundane essence,
but also agreeable, in that it can become
completed more easily through
                         as one might make an analogy to:
sharpening a pencil, or a knife...
    the only pleasure in this world
is that of perfecting a menial task into
an art form...
          i look at my father roofing,
    yes, the scottish widows' h.q. near st. paul's
if my roof, in part,
              but when you can overcome
the menial labour, and profess the ultimate
proficiency of the labour at hand,
and ice-skate by comparison of
labouring rather than walking up a sand-dune,
you know what i mean.
abstract thinking is a labour process,
yes, ha ha, very pedantic of me to stress
that manual labour is harder than intellectual
labouring -
but then the mind-body duality becomes
a dichotomy...
                when inspected thus.
what do i do all day? i attempt a modern take
on buddhist meditation,
        in that: i once thought meditation had
to be this peace-invoking scene,
   under a tree, on a sunny day,
  whatever the parameters were, became shattered
by my re-invention of the counter-cartesian
"methodology"...
            i moved past heidegger's
dasein -
and the question of pluralism -
thank **** heidegger deals with pluralism and
not relativism, esp. moral,
since that is most abhorrent.
             the question of being in heidegger's
terms is best ascribed to named:
       newton, shakespeare, jefferson,
you name them...
        being is a form of magnetism -
                        the "question" of being,
is answered with beings -
it's beside the point to call for analogues -
that being is supposed to spawn analogues -
a **** similis to prophet or a genius -
hardly... existence is a lottery,
we get our deal of cards, and we play them
as we "thought" we intended to.
         the final point to make is that,
to gravitate toward by "buddhist" concept
from the western, cartesian concept of
res cogitans is not whether so much
of man's thoughts are wasted upon
the ad (nauseam) continuum of narratio...
the final barrier is to breach the threshold
of whether thinking is the rightful carrier
of any moral question...
            i.e. whether thought = (θ)ought (i)?
which is why i invented the concept
     / object (that is concentrated on) -
    when not exercising or labouring to endure
the mundane presence of narrative "thinking" -
i call it the slingshot...
  or, more technically: res vanus -
an empty thing.
   i stretch the rubber of the res vanus for
a whole day, but at the end of the day
i pour myself a drink and wait for a release point,
where, in the end,
i actually do become a thinking thing -
but more or less: res echo -
                my thought suddenly begins
to echo...
             from my mind to my body and
then onto a page, in writing;
                     but this dynamic only happens
when i treat my thinking as non-coherent,
compartmentalised, shattered,
  a rubic cube of attention-seeking deficints
in the sensual world engaged in seeking my
attention for the observer,
of what is the unobserved world...
it is i, who have to be the observed,
    and become so, by "seemingly" not thinking,
well, narrating my own little
solipsistic take on things...
            and to think, once upon a time,
i found so much pleasure from "thinking",
i.e. narrating... imagine my bewilderement
to have found that actual thinking,
is to actually not, think!
     like any other celibacy, which is quiet
funny...
because only by restraint, can you actually
conjure a non-self-sycophancy,
  of the most remote universal unit of, truth.

p.s. can you even stagger and believe that
the greeks already had graphemes?
     in the title, or so i "think" -
as ever, thinking ought to be a certainty
   of the uncertainty of thought per se,
                 doubt -
how ugly thinking became with the existentialists
who exchanged the end product: doubt,
with the end product: denial...
whereby by thinking became the
uncertainty of the certainty of thought:
minus the per se.

what, you're going to suddenly get the *****, by gently kissing the knee?

i've heard this argument once, before, writing
an answer:
men are visually orientational creatures -
they're the dumb bucks in mating
season,
all the beta-male sycophancy of getting laid...
and how females have a tendency to
become artistic "radiologists"...
how women will always write better than
men, because: they are less of painters
than they are writers...
right... so women write better because
men paint better?
   are you sure it has nothing to do with
putting makeup on? i've watched about
a dozen makeup videos done by women,
and i'm thinking: a man would have done
about a dozen ****** sketches in
the same space of time it takes a woman
to do her makeup...
  want compliments? ask your ******
*** of a girlfriend, your golf course
rotary, your tennis "coach"...
   men are great at painting because
they're not stuck-in-a-rut of makeup hours...
3 quarters is less about intimidating
peacock antics, and more about:
*****-slapping the contenders for
the wallet sniffing akin to ravenous wolves...
there's a reason why women don't paint:
it's called make-up, alternatively
     known as *frida kahlo...
  what woman talks about shaving her
frown line outside the bikini dimension?
none...
      and how many women become success
stories about their fathers?
oh, i'll write about my mother
when she's dead, and i'll take to a twist
on the story akin to meursault's
"convenience": well, she's dead, isn't she,
what am i supposed to do?
it's out of my hands,
and i'm not the one to arm wrestle death
akin to a cinema of bergman...
so why are women so bad at painting?
maybe because their painting
is best referenced in putting on make-up?
and are they better at writing?
only in the category of alluding to
personal crap, that they can't tell their
secular priests (psychiatrists) directly...
i'm not actually going to fall for
the inversion of descartes' equation:
      i can be a: ****, misogynist, etc. -
   point being: i'll still think on my own terms,
i can have about twenty badges
if: hello, my name is - prudence...
     and the p.s. could read
arkansas...
                       and my ambition could
reside in hollywood...
              but women will never
be painters, because they're already
engrossed in cosmetics...
it's not because women are wording
creatures, and that men are
visual creatures...
       it's that men can turn into
the bearded ladies of the dwarven kingdom,
and put little or no cologne on
their shaved cheeks...
               it's so boring to event attempt
lying these days:
   since so many people are in denial,
the fun is a bit like being conservative,
monogamous, or simply telling the truth;
how can women ever compensate
for the great interlude of man,
    femina est in continuus -
   *** esse **** est in interludium -
id est: a woman is bound to a continuum,
with man being in interlude -
woman preserves, man perseveres...
              all great men are interludes,
while all great women are a continuum...
there was the interlude of newton,
there was the interlude of einstein...
           there was an interlude of every faraday,
there was the interlude of...
count them, in warhol's 15 minutes' worth
of worthy attention...
        women can't paint,
because women already can paint:
by putting on make-up...
               the rest is just *******.

Regression parading as tradition
Modernity rejected in culture at the end of history.

Echoes of innovation only linger in the technology
Of subscribed self-adulation,
Quench the thirst trap.

Drink until you drown in the sound of static.
The revolution won’t be televised
Everything’s a repeat, an omnibus of Section 25;
They’re gunning after the enemies of hegemony; 

Fight it, resist it; the truth will be twisted

In the teeth of lobbied grins
So sing the populist nationalism anthem -
The only hit in the charts
That sustains the sycophancy of sentimentality.


Everything old, nothing new
To sedate the disenfranchised 

Who can’t wait to see the day 

Asylum seekers never know sanctuary.

call it culture... call it: kul-toor... something "cool"...
i've just drank a bottle of wine and
i'm far from... feeling an armchair moment
of enjoying: whatever it is i'm supposed to enjoy...

millenial woes...
        h3h3... the whole list... it's really your standard
packet of pork chops...
i would be much prouder if i were...
adamantly watching an english soap-opera...
at least that sort of "consumering" makes
it to a pub quiz status... the trivia the knowledge:
the machine gun and blank stares:
who's who?

      but i have comes across the concept
of ASMR...
                       insomnia dalmation barking
in swiss...
i was... once upon a time:
  told to listen to some Max Richter...
      i still much prefer christopher young's
hellraiser II: hellbound soundtrack...
i've been buthering that soundtrack for almost
forever... and the "problem of counting sheep":
i imagine myself making a chicken...
into a soup from the torso - intricate bones
of the spines...
   perhaps the wings... then leaving
the ******* for a roullade: or schnitzels...
and the quarters (thighs and legs)... well...
that's just another dinner... probably roasted...

counting sheep: can it be called:
shooting ducks?
              ASMR... cringe videos of whispering...
who pays...
when there's that full package available
with the bulgarian women... the dimmed lights...
once a year... perhaps once every two or three...
but of course... i check on myself daily:
whether all this drinking and all that smoking
is true: that it might lead one to a limb-****
bashing... day in day out like someone checking
their blood sugar or their blood pressure...
i check mine...
                        
        culture: ketchup...
           a clean and easy throne of thrones affair...
the no. 1, 2 and 3... and then a baptism in
the shower...
                most of the time i pretend:
having wiped my ***...
            if "culture" / ketchup is this bad...
the next best thing? ******:
                  becoming a **** flinging monkey!

busy as busy comes...
when was the last time it rained in england?
april was when i witnessed the spike of oddities...
it was sunny: so much so that you could
turn sunlight into a liquid and drink it:
like a schnapps...
     the bewildering concept of the english garden...
when... the garden is rarely used...
to b.b.q. like an australian:
   etc.
                 but the neighbour put up a fence
after 15 years of "politics" and now
i am working on putting apart the old shed
and putting up the new one...
          
ASMR... that kite is flying and i just want
to cut its umbilical chord...
and send a message in a bottle... thrown...
into something as static as a big chemical-puddle...
in a mini "bottle"... the message being written
in braille and itching on nail's head...
like a Gustav Dore etching...

                              something: spectacular...
        this that or the other... something spectacular...
like a phoneline... all calls from india
and from a call-centre...
                     thank god this canvas is "meine sprechen"...
spectacular" unwinding in how pedagogy
is a memory acid... someone comes along:
we, write - alt. "grammar"...
           no need - or need...
                      rules like gravity: never mind!
rules like: how to tie a tie: never mind!
      we make up as we go along...
***** spirit: yo'go!
               astounding my disbelief...
                 such rules when asked:
  could, extend... toward... the schizoid cipher?
        nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
bad grammar is one thing: speaking in metaphors
and crosswords: only the zodiac could:
with that splinter of ego and a hacking:
of brain as woo woo wood woody chen.

                to have went to school for the sole reason
that: one weren't born in the victorian
era and being a chimney-sweep!
   better have dumbed down and taught
to stack supermarket shelves:
while also being taught that...
   and... wanting to read in your spare time...

to see... a cohort of peacocks strutting like
geeese... tails folded.
                
    for lack of a better choice of words:
hit & miss... hit & run...
             if this was as easy as getting:
what walt whitman got...
             or didn't get...
                   bad grammar is good grammar:
a bit like arithmetic: 3 + 15 = 19!
or... the science of: guess...

                scratch of the head:
perhaps i'm an apostate catholic...
a proselyte veering toward... digging under
judaism is a pitiable reading of the qabbalah...
the good catholic boy'oh with his credo,
his litany of ave marias and unser vater...
     in conversation with hey'zeus: ihre vater...

                  noster pater: pater noster...
                    vester pater: pater vester...

to be so: "shielded"... a belief matching up
to prayer beads...
to actual prayer... and all that... cognitive free-space
to boot!
i'm a bad atheist: at inception...
or is that the "un" conversion?
to gravitate filling nothing with a self,
a mirror and smoking a cigarette infront of it...
it's not enough...
that i do not pray: doesn't excuse the fact
that... i'm squeezed by an octopus in a straitjacket...
to think of god: existent or non-,
            it's hardly concerning myself with:
objective reality objective truth or objective
morality...
               pass as a ghost in this life...
a tomb of body in the waiting: to admire sparrows
is to also pay very little due for
opera... the timing is crucial... or not...

   concern oneself with comparisons...
to truly appreciate a sparrow singing...
is to stand stark naked in a garden...
to truly appreciate an opera...
is to don the tux... and play the vanity game
and the game of voyeurism...
same old same old:
same book: different cover...

                     new atheism: no god...
yes... but still that funnel argument of: no god...
if a funnel is the hearing-aid of Pascal...
i bet it is...
                  bad grammar was one thing...
but the proof of solipsism?
farting in a crowded place...
and being the only person who wouldn't
mind the mild: overstated "nuance"
of exploring perfumes that...
better suit... the decomposition of
strawberries and apples...

cezanne... had he painted still life...
yes... at that moment of "death"...
recycling vector (0, 0, 0) when the fruits
in still life have reached the nadir...
but the form is still intact... etc.

                      to be a catholic or...
but to be an atheist: and have one's prayers
"stolen" and replaced with...
at best: the prefix omni- and a geometry...
to have one's prayers "liberated"
by the thought-glutton of existence or non-,

chowhound: chew-fiend...
best of all... no teeth, not tongue...
no tapeworm of oesophagus inverted:
umbilical chord "gizmo" replica...
no stomach no **** bishop "pomp & circumstance"
and the **** the crown...

so much for praying: praying could be recovered
from...
but to have one's thinking occupied so?
it's beside the psalm of the Pascal wager...
to think:
             ut cogito... the act, itself...
so much for: ego cogito...
                    
                         to think: no therefore...
is... to...             what?               be?
how many times i have found thinking to be
a **** manual... thinking at times frees...
but most of the time: reality-checks...
contrains... and obliterates prospects...
then again: that wouldn't be concise enough
to be given either noun or verb status concerning:
the...                zone rouge...

to think: is and isn't:
     otherwise... a statement... of exasperation...
that has no compensation
in a translation of: thought = being...
i think is hardly a cornerstone...
it's a stone... a stone among rubble...
a good... revisionist: again!
   this... "i" and this "think"...
                      
and overstated fact guarded by:
a pronoun invocation...
          but: to think...    what's that?
to think is... what?
           to conjure up a soul...
and all the hallucinations to boot?
to think is to... what?
in the future: the lost participle of present...
and the past tense being:
nothing more than a mongrel
of journalism... history and... perhaps...
poo'etry?

             no... there's absolute no need to make
of h'americans for their secular shortcomings...
but there's just the Salem...
and those stickers... parental... guidance...
necessary...
                        oath words like: i... **** i swear...
the church the tele-evangelical:
spit *** sooner pit of...
                    if i had my way with
the mid-west... sooner i: deer-hunter...

so much for the catholic boy: prayer, duty...
and so much for the atheisst "i":
who eats all my thought: the θ(ought)
conundrum... perhaps it's a moral question
too... perhaps...

   to think: thought: ought i?
lucky for me...
my body is a shadow and my shadow is thought...
and i forget what's a crowd-pleaser and
what will allow me to sentence to grief: less and less...
and less...
ah! to think: ought i? ergo:
qua: non-qua
                             vel: non-qua: qua...

i waited for rain... i waited for rain...
i finally found joy in rain...
i also found a lisp of scotland...
many a mile before edinburgh was reached...

up and along the swing...
to swing so high... but to also sulk so low...
at least the catholics and those other
pseudo-italians are just: god-****! predictable!
backwards... introspective:
that the orc started to trend on twitter...
where is Mordor? east...
i usually conjure up the russians and
the slavs: well... given that russia is mostly
conjured up into breath by
mongol mongrels - anything of russian
envy east of moscow?

kazakhstan?!

         i'm no freer from "god" as either
atheist or catholic...
sure... i don't have to pay duty for and excuses
mumling credo under my
"knowledge" of soul: the breath...
but something is still eating my thought:
it doesn't exactly care whether it exists
or whether it doesn't...
the best argument i'll have to borrow...

si dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer...
if god did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him;
i too wish it would be done: the easiest -
to simply not think of him...

a cul de sac of arguments for my liking:
it's a plughole...
a bathtub full of water...
and the waterline is diminishing...
that will still not make me more
"believable" should i succumb to pray...
the worst aspect of h'america is
not the gluttony...
it's the evengelical zeal... then again:
i'm also wondering how this
is to escape me...
dilute itself into the readily available air...
fizzle out...
like a bottle of caronated water...
left open... till the carbon mingling within
a ******* of oxygen twins...
goes-bye-bye:

  when the first h'americans took to tourism
via pulp fiction: about le bib mac...
and fries served up with a dollop of mayo -
alt. - to home run: score...
zoid ist tod! zoid ist tod!

                 the prayer manual worth of god...
gone... dusted... the moths are settling...
and the spiders too...
              but the thinking loose skin...
"   " and what was missed bound to
a "malapropism" -
             hyper-inflated dyslexia...
       because learning grammar sentences you:
to that ode for the dickensian
chimney-sweeper!
  
                the misnomer... and the malapropism...
a debate: no... it's not a pun...
the peacock is loitering...
bad gwammar doth not:
fizzle out to faze him...
            
                yep... one of those internet ketchup
        moments...
to be "commited": pride and dignity...
performing a karaoke of harakiri...
                high-brow ambitions...
that: pride... and dignity... revenge... say what?!

salt is salty: no... salt is salt...
sugar is sweet: true... because:
you can't exactly....
              sugar is: sweet...
but sugary? unlike salt: there's no salty...
    sugar... sugary...
           salt: salty...
                    sugar is sweet...
but: sweety? an endearment?
sugary: taste the difference?
granuled... powder... syrop prone?
salt is salty: no... salt is salt...
sugar is sugary: no... sugar is sugar...

                                             blah blah...
and thank god no one has the time
and... concern for a capacity of minding...
such details... of obscurity...
better equipped:
a plumber with a blockage of a pipe...
than me... teasing at etymology...

life is: the bore of the precursor of time:
eternal time...
           forever is hardly a wait...
no amount of solipsism could ever solve...
the stage the sycophancy:
i ask: the solipsist and the sycophant
the same question:
what's the answer... when no question
is being aksed?

Darkness,
Inflation,
Bigotry,
Nepotism;

Unemployment,
Terrorism,­
Kidnapping,
Medical tourism;

Miseducation,
Ethnic cleansing,
Mediocrity,
Tribalism;

Unease of doing business,
Multiple taxation,
Weak currency,
Egotism;

The shamelessness in high places,
The sycophancy along those corridors of power,
The visible aloofness to pressing needs among the masses,
The sheer policy of deliberate regional disempowerment;

Everything points to worse times,
Only the dead need not worry,
For the living, deafening chimes,
A worrying state of statelessness.

***, is such a minor pass, on exfoliating expressions of pleasure, it's overrated, because it invokes such a bias, of bragging... its saturation with bragging hierarchies...

let's just assume, that working out pop music
favoritism, is less, "debilitating" than
attracting the attention of the ultra-******
squad of full bodied latex apocalypse ****
junkies...

           clearly... no one wants a hide & seek
pregnancy errant of succumbing to
the stature of fatherhood, when, the woman
you're involved...
can't tell you the difference between
her mother as her sister,
and her grandmother, as her mother...

oops?!

         but ***-bragging is such a shallow
form of entertainment...
            it's like the antithesis of
the Olympic spirit, with modern mob sports...
jargon this, jargon that...
counter: i am in favor of cult-status horror
movies, minor projects,
low budget... hellraiser -
notably for the atmospheric semi-religious
music strategies... auras...

        but atmospheric horror movies?
no ghouls, no goblins,
akin to that famous case of
marcin wrona hanging himself
having directed a movie about
a dýbbūk?
                    can you seriously contend
with reinventing comedy via
black comedy, dry comedy,
when the horror movie genre has moved
into the atmospheric partake of
reinvention - having
exhausted all the stereotypes,
and given them, a romantic twist?
      
*** bragging is such a minor pleasure...
  eloquence... tenacity...
    supposition: an entire banquet
of countering false allegations...
      all, much more, than mere ***...
           burning, the flesh,
rather than cutting it,
in the insistence of teenage girls...
ancient Roman bulimia rites
      of the transversed
                  state of young adulthood...

so neglecting...
   giving these girls the power of
****** sycophancy, shedding blood...
cutting, slitting, imitating the ***** slit...
never even teaching them,
about heating up a scissor hand,
burning themselves,
and cannibalizing their pain...
           turning it into
a cognitive strength...
              
  the horror genre has moved
into an atmospheric countenance...
comedy? lacking...
can't even find a redeeming aspect of
slapstick...
          where once was black humor...
western comedy,
never, ever, entertained
the concept of, a, cabaret...
it's too entrenched in
   monologist style comic entertainment...

which reads very much
like a slogan akin to:

SAVE THE AUTISTIC CHILDREN!

the bragging will stop,
the ******* embers of sheiks will drop
and drool...
     and ***...
    for whatever it was worth...
    will receive its relegating boot
from mainstream jealousy
          shackling, at the shuffling
ankles;
   mary ******* poppins...
  schim schim schim-n-é...
schim... mmm...
                    whatever...
                        out of all the movie genres?
horror...
         is the most nostalgic,
most melodic,
   of a classical schooling -
         ssss chewing, chart cheap:  
isch contra ich vilderswill...
          double U?  but not double V?
            eh...
                    secondary credit to fantasy
movies...
       j. r. r. tolkien...
would have never believed that
the story didn't make the compelling case...
nor the visual effects...
   but the music? sure as **** did.

/                                          there's a difference
between sycophancy
and, being:
                       endearing...

like there's a difference
between
what psychiatrists
fear -              empathy

and what the generic
  (yes, that's a collectivist
term for society)

crave, in the form of sympathy...

why why, oh my...
words actually do possess
the fathomability of squares
and other forms

of ad abstractum;
        so... can you make
my sudden surprise: generic?!

    ginger ninja, ******* son of
a skivvying mom (um?)
   'ere we go! 'ere we go!
     rhyme and rhythm -

   now watch me perform
    a... mahler!

enough rhyme to encompass
a rhythm for you?

  - ginger ninja... **** me:
   good that i didn't think it up,
             but merely passed it on.

(that seriously implies the genesis
of the concept of a paragraph,
in english,
      utilißing the hyphen...

i'm foreign:
   english isn't exactly to become
a serious concept...
     i fiddle with it without playing
a violin...
     i toy with it...

    the mortus operandi
  of the memoria of my great grandfather
(on my mother's side)
  was that i was supposed to play
the piano...

   sure as **** i'm playing one now...
but all my notes
are "surd"-encodings...

   inorganic now...
              organic later...

ha ha! that ******* i're celtic
                              ginger ninja! ha ha!

it's a love: that transcends
                            domesticatic a woman;

because there's an alternative
to keeping one?

               really?!

mmm...  just the thought of an alternative:

   one word clue...

                  yummy:

                           mixed-race "*******":

jay-jay- jay-may-can       oopsie far-vour
   (that's québécois
for                                 vow-oh-r
   voo...
                     trump pursed lips...
    
                         far-  -voo- -voolevie-
                  voo-va-voom...

and no... it's not a... favour...)
            
come to think of it,
   i prefer organic canvases
             of implementation,
           since: no poet actually
convened to surprise the, "idea":
which was already a priori in
            an ontological canvas;

this? this is just a posteriori!

   am i the first person to actually
paint onto a psyche rather than
                    a blank canvas of wool?  

what a ******* ****-head that i am
infuriating such ideas without
any actual implementation strategies!

                                                    ­                      /

There is a luxurious lair of lies
Lovingly tended and layered with blanket truths;
A soft-bedding of sumptuous sycophancy
Tucked in too neatly with a pat on the bottom
delivered by hand.

Delusion drips from wet lips and silken tongues and
Lips smack with self-satisfaction and serial smugness.
Syrupy sentiments mist the eyes and blur the vision.
Charity is cold and cynical here with oily patronage to grease the wheels.
Fresh facts freeze outside the glowing house of harpy half - truths
as self- advancement holds the floor.
You need to wear a cloak to enter and hold it tight against you
You need to study the players
You need to act.

that there be no memorandum and that's, with ~one word:
enough said -
                       enough to say
Maurice Jarre; and the kept heart;
autumnal bearers of
the Griffin mould of brown and
quarter orange -
                  so i too might remember...
that beckon of the south....
                       at last in rhapsody
to the one remembered as having the attention span....
and the Shakespearean puncture -
                                          well...
had we been so loved up with learning
             as Ancient Arabs were with Aristotle....
10th century revision acquired demand -
                              i too would make a joke concerning
the black gold of the Saudis...
                       being spent on joking around the totality
of human affairs... and when the Koran was necessary
the Saudis simply quoted their newly established
Kabul of unorthodox idea -
            parallel to Mecca -
                                               minding the failure of:
fill 'em up, meaning they'll be fulfilled;
who gives a **** if the Arabs read Aristotle pristine
in the 10th century, they're hardly the ones to
speak a "saving the planet" speech these days...
   they could have read Aristotle perfectly in the 10th
century... but when it comes to readers' digest:
they're basically not clued in...
                             given it's the 21st century...
i'm blaming all that spending potential...
                                       all that spending potential
on Arab sycophancy, elaborated;
cos', after all, it's just cheese: mozzarella elongation
and a tribute to the moustache.

every morning i write "mea culpa" on my palm
with a cheap ink pen i found in a parking lot
while wandering around looking for something
to write about
little victories
rental history
past due
losing it
putrid
Euclid in a noose
loose cash for a cheap elote evocation
i bleed truth from my gums when im drunk and my heroes hate me

with so many of us alive:
death is hardly a magic trick...
i can account for
the living, yet not to be seen
neighbours...
                  death has become:
suckling at the **** of
  mecca: and all other forms of
industralisation...
   the masked firmness
of death & grave:
     among this living elasticity;
that ******* of making
                   "things": cordial.

.in the back of my mind...
           gyöngyhajú lány -
                  the huns have finally
succumbed to the "pastor's"
                   castrato harem of the choir?!
wow!
                but i will still have
to "steal" from shakespeare's take
on macbeth, in pig latin...
    by... someone known as apemantus...
what other worth is there beside
citing macbeth?
  thus and the prayer:

              hell... let's give it a spin,
english, latin, scottish gaelic...

  immortal gods, i crave no self;
i pray for no man, but myself.
grant i may never prove so fond,
   to trust man on his oath or bond;
or a harlot for her weeping;
or a dog that seems a-sleeping;
or a keeper with my freedom;
or my friends, if i should need'em.
amen. so fall to 't:
rich men sin, and i eat root.

     immortalem superi, ego rogo nullus sese;
ego tandem enim nullus ****,
sed memet.
     tribuo ego licet numquam
demonstro sic amans,
     ut confido **** super
          suus sacramentum vel vinculum;
   uel scortum quia sua ploratus;
ut canis quod videor soporatus;
ut custor *** mea libertas;
ut mea amici, si ego postulo illis.
amen. ita cado to id:
    **** dives peccare,
                ut ego pappo radix.

again, this is pig latin...
the gaelic version will not be much
better...
                       who the hell can even envision
speaking ancient latin,
without succumbing to modern
english grammar? so much for the
current gaelic...

neo-bhàsmhor diathan, mi miann chan eil fèin;
mi ùrnaigh airson chan eil duine,
                       ach mi fhìn.
tabhartas mi a'chèit(ean) a-chaoidh
                          tha measail,
    gu earbsa duine air an bòid no bann;
no ah clàrsach airson í    a ’caoineadh;
no ah cù sin a ’chadal;
    no ah neach-glèidhidh còmhla ris
                                  mo saorsa;
no mo caraidean, ma tha mi bu chòir
                                            feum air iad.
amen. tha tuiteam gu e:
    beairt fir (sin), agus mi ith freumh.

i really don't see the "problem",
with, the, "problem"
containing itself...
          there's a *******
concern...
  but the paedophiles are
self-reforming?
  so... there's a problem?
               oh sure sure....
there's a problem...
gay pride parades...
      to "me": that's a real *******
problem...
          gas the jews...
casanova just ate a rat...
what's your problem,
*****?!
         the eternal law of man...
ever see a former
convicted paedophiles
get kicked in the face,
and take it,
                like a hulk brute?
**** happens:
at least the heritage
of the slave trade /
the holocaust survivors
also learned...
god will take it,
he made gravity
a jurisprudence stasis...
because he knew...
man, for all the jurisprudnce
worth? not worth that
much...
                "sorry"...
i'm not defending,
but i get them...
when grown women become
so nauseating,
limitating, so... "off-limits"...
you know what
a male mating pig's name
is in a porky harem
in poland?
        knur / knout...
that word alone lets me
to remember ******...
          gg... ******: swim...
down the deep-end...
             you were gagging for
this to become apparent,
this enforced egg-shell
walk *******...
      and i was called vermin...
and there came the mongol,
the **** and the communist...
now i'm watching
these bulging african hulks
and i'm looking at my body...
and... there really isn't
much to think of!
             pressing the right buttons...
i like that, now i get to press
the "wrong" buttons
on behalf of me...
      come on...
kinh john of england
wed a bride aged...
   isabella of angoulême
                 (lem) no "extra" e...
there's the ian watkins
example...
         of the lostprophets...
no baby-****** is
given you the jitters
when it comes to teenage girls...
i'm sorry...
     i remember being a teenager...
what's wrong with
teenager sexuality?
there's something wrong with
it?
    oh... there was always
something wrong with it...
sexuality matures,
legally...
when a woman reaches
her prime age
of 40, and she's crazy not having
frozen her ovaries...
wow!
             no, really, wow!
she's not a baby,
she's in her teens...
talk about an elevated
stance on m.g.m.
(male genital mutilation)...
it's like:
harem, ******, strap-ons
are not enough!
the mere thought is evil!
some more pharmacological
revisionists actions, yes?
so the simple process
of castration won't help?
we'll need the pharmacological
amnesia procedure?
cool cool!
         sign me up...
i already have a hard-on
for the experiment...
  if these people want to see
a baboon in a cage
riddled by haemorrhoids...
sign me up
for this "judo chop" sat on.

see... i see a big difference
when it comes to honesty
and outright shaming...
   when someone says they have
these kind of urges,
but is nontheless able
to suppress them?
       that's a ******* diamond...
that's worth keeping...
  i like this sort of honesty...
what i don't like is scheming
and shaming these unique
examples...

             between male to male...
it's the one resort's worth of
a cognitive ****** that serves
its purpose...
again... how old was
isabella of angoulême
when she was wedded to
king john of england?

          plus... all the teens look alike...
maybe that's the problems
facing these *******
reasoning type inhibitors of
the urge...

     mind you...
   lars von trier's take on
paedophilia in nymphomaniac...
at least some had
the ***** to commit
             to the deviant taboo...
but all the children look alike...
    what is it?
the fetish for "everything"
looking alike?
     generic fetish?

to reiterate:            

in the end...
     like all babies...
they just have the faces
of clones...
           non-distinguishable...

the difference between me
and your common folk...
well...
   kicking someone in the head...
on parole...
for distributing leaflets
in a new employment...
    whatever they did...
i suppose
the guillotine would be
a more humane eventuality
to provide justice on the part
of the victim...

       sexuality is odd...
to make homosexuality norm...
but paedophilia a taboo...
  feels like "someone" is being
excluded...
can't exactly make one
the norm and leave the other
one in the tribunal
of the nomads;
                          how is it fair?

in no desence,
   but i gather: what i have written,
will never reach the pop
majority that is usually associated
with a pop backlash,
just like: psychology made philosophy
popular in the 19th century,
by shortening it,
by sticking to schematic explanations...
like this,
   this will not reach the regurgitators
of pop culture, those twitter
sycophancy *****...
        unless, i'm, dead!
            i'll be left with drying
my jeans on the bed, with a cat sleeping
on the same bed i've decided to treat
as a rack...
      even now...
              try reading a Marcel Proust
2 vol. edition...
                    go to the gym, bro.,
       believe me: go to the gym, bro.
              
me? i love it...
it's like i can put on a godhead of either
rat or a fox, and manoeuvre my way
past all these jimmy... ****...
all these jeremy clarksons...
    and jeremy kyles...
                         another whiskey bottle
for me, another obscure prog rock album...
another night...
         and the world can just pass
me by, while i return to enjoying
skipping onto a double-decker from romford
to stratford, through to oxford st.,

some bad latin, even worse scottish gaelic...
these days you're not even famous
for 15 minutes, as, according to the andy warhol
prediction...
no one is famous these days,
not even for 15 minutes...
             the 15 minute window is over...
now? if you want to be "famous"...
sorry...
             infamy doesn't work
in 15 minute slots...
      when you're "famous" these days?
you're infamous forever...
         these days any publicity:
is bad publicity...
           i'll curse the day when i become
relevant to a large enough
number of people...
      that's the day i will learn
that i have lost the respect of the few
i managed to enthral.

to write: in order to be unable to recognise
oneself in the writing -
        impossible to stress a variation of amnesia:
it's a... it's a...

             the current philanthrope: archaic for:
philanthropist -
                   because no there's no new-outfit
for a misanthrope...
                             vaccinations blue-checkers...
a game of chess:
   with narratives...
               alliance of white: as doubt...
                     and alliance of black: as denial...
but this is not a game...
  no one plays a game to feed such
a gluttonous slouch of staging:
                       demoralization projects...

brain-sponges and some variation
of music as a wheezing...
                    or a helium gargantua:
laughter in a vacuum...

it's sometimes to think about the eyes:
unless there's a concern
for either mountain of a canyon -
it's impossible to think without the sea...
i somehow wish that i could
fathom the eyes as a simple
prelude to having two stones
in a trouser pocket...
and fiddling with them...

i want to make my tongue enshrined
in the confines of an oyster:
some forgotten gem...
   i dream about homelessness
and all of life's tragedy
                of: beside a prison...
the freedom to roam...
        but i somehow stumble...
if only the determination
              of a classical lore akin to
Sisyphus...
              
                    it's always impossible
to borrow something from
the Greeks...
           then again:
who were the Greeks at the fall
of Contantinople...
             breaking bones to fiddle
with the buckle of Islam...
            it's almost tickling the suspense
lying in wait...

a marlboro cigarette is unlike
a camel cigarette...
              i say they add something
to the puff...
        happy to have been freed from
the nicotine hangover...
but it somehow aids these scribbles...
it's not much...
    it's not madame bovary or
anna karenina...

                                time is playing catch-up
and i... hope for a seclusion
of assets...
     i mostly lie before
a sleep pattern completely petrified...
not that i rarely conjure
ushers of dream...
                   but that...
            it's always the same impossibity
of being a son of a father...
or some other monstrosity
of time: noted... when abiding
with a grandfather...

if i could question the ownership
of my ears...
if i could replace my eyes
with either two stones in my pocket
fiddled with like a pair of dice...
or shelter in the "myopia"
of: one eye for the canyon...
the other for the mountain...

  how is it that i am so at loss...
where is a pick-me-up of ambition...
i am without ambition...
in that: should i enjoy ambition
and make myself a prospect
of a career in politics...
in that old sequence of...
people coming together!

      i as a we! are not! corrupt!
it's so impossible to attempt to live
a life of an honest man...
then again... before such a question
is posed: one must...
turn the fudge... bother the barley...
grind the bits to a flour...
if i were given a compass
and asked to be placed
on the spectrum of:
counter the philosopher's stone:
money... what would i do...
if a servitude of implosive meaning
were ascribed to a sudden
revision... if name and title should
be engraved on... peanuts...
and we were all... "suddenly" elephants
behind the "riddle"...

   it's not merely impossible:
it's just plain stupid...
  if i had one ear as a cave...
and the other as a savannah...
for sure: one to feed the concern for echo...
otherwise the derelict disguise
of a splendour of lingo...

        this... is an abadoned house...
feel free to roam in it beside...
i will have left it once i have complete
the doodle...
    it's not much because:
it's not rhyme-friendly...
                 but thanks to the h'american
school... it's doesn't matter
whether poetry is an art of
the scalpel or demands for pedagogy's
regurgitation...
whether h'america is sleeping
or whether russia is reading...

           there's that currency of the narrative:
an expediEncy...
     i'd write an A into that "affair" if i was
to be all too honest...
              it's not like english
allocates orthographic pressures
of shame... should a transgression
be posed...
                   the old mechanical baron arm
of carrot forward! stick! is precise in...
what's to be allocated!

it's impossible to drink these days:
since the moral hangover...
it's impossible to smoke a cigarette...
since the same impossible hangover...
it's not even a question
of who's contesting a replica of 100 years
sober samuel...
     it's impossible to make eternal
demands of life with a posthumous p.s.:

for lack of a better word...
of the concern for what's to be ate...
the eyes pleasure...
the ears are... ears...
cartilege: an impromptu revision...
but the tongue oh so ******* critical...
it's almost necessary to learn
a second language in order to justify
being a foor critic...

food critic? this is what happens when...
the *** drive of humans is over-stated...
bogus work... and the unemployed masturbators...
the same spectrum...
a bogus job title at one end...
an unemployed masturbator at the other...

        the grass grows plenty for the rabbits...
if the desire for banana dries up...
for the baboons...
  and there's no will to straighten those
parades... then there's... "platanitos"... etc.
                   but there's a need for a plethora:
counter the forests with paper...
        should i desire more priests?!
       it's a fear... that i will absolve myself
from retaining the last remains
of authenticity -
        for the filled goblet made by
a spew of lies...
        it's such an impossible...
  "nuance"...      "bereaving"...
                 ­                      hyphen antics...
          a *******!           compromise!
   like Noah... building his project was...
all about... the made collective individuals...
i attempt working for a lie...
i die at the attempt of working...
unless of course...
             the mind of man is so...
intricate and spectacular to be without
fault...
as to the genuine promise from afar in time...

it's a terrible affair to have
homelessness as a fear... first, highest...
to then watch videos of people
going through the tides
and somehow stomaching the lacklustre
adventure...

- so to write something that
can't be paraded - that it has to gravitate
towarding a biding personal -
to heave the half-breath
of tendering sycophancy & scrutiny...
for there to be a...
whisper of rome...
come the advent of the caesars...

what an old ******* of hope...
             it's not near impossible...
when confined to...
   the cul de sac of gauging out of eyes
and rat inclined impromptus...

the current philan-thropist
         is so bothersome like a c.c.t.v.
installation that the misanthrope is a complete
bonkers jazz *** las vegas inversion
perfect!
         via / in between the solipsist:
self-conscious autist
    and the whoever takes your fancy...
   i'm making myself suspect
of what's being readied as: "digestable"...
it's not impossible...
it's just... cow-towing i.e. depressing...
     who would have thought
that a simple trick could...
fool... magnus primo maribus -
         the first great adventurer...
the shackled chimpanzee to a 'shroom...
or the 'shroom: a fungus riddle
of the primate seeing UV and ultra-red...
the first prized cinema of purple
with fluorescence: liquid light...
                                         lux liquidum...
the demands for phosphrescnce revisionism?

thus to be schooled: "schooled" without
a slightnest idea of how to deal with
a psychopasth - that one ordeal of being robbed
with the intention of the purely materialised
mechanisation of life:
the depth of the slit into soulness...

a hybrid of nothing and ego...
to borrow a figment of the imagination:
the gravity toward an engineeer
of a longboat that's
about as useful as a piece of paper...
perhaps the assurance of a kite...
which implies the wind...
"sloth" beside an attempt at water...
if the sea were a river...
and the tide were the narrative...
but the lacklustre of heaving "nuance"...

  we weren't schooled to be carpenters...
as we weren't...
to enjoy the ******* and a narrative
of "leisure"...
       before the gnat crescendo...
like some altar for the breaking of the bones
of a horse heaving
a sought at sigh...

                 could i ask the priest crow
for more? when addressing him to quest a q.
of a magpie or a birch tree?
could i heave a stomach so riddled
woth indigestion...
                to forever quest for
a mountain's zenith...
having to begin with a pyramid's nadir...
this sand... this time...
this impossible demand for...

a lasting: a debilitating concept of hope...
that's beyond crying...
a concept: but at best...
a concern for a dog...
then again... a dog: a leash, a muzzle...
the perfect cat the "homeowner"...
the gap-year striptease crescendo!

i want to fear this avenue of
life's worded tolls...
because...
there's a respect for them...
unlike... like there's a celebration
of Diogenes... if all the homeless
were to serve a fate
of this sour-**** of a gritting over...
               what am i: as question:
possibly having to write?
if all the homeless people
were a Diogenes of Sinope...
                
  i was in Athens once...
armed with a glass of absyinthe...
some yogoslav toll-busters...
a freak-magnet of a striptease bar
with myself ******* my trousers...
finding to a bind
of a way-back...
              hey presto!
            it's not a fear...
it's an anticipation...
               a manhunter prodigy affair...
to have to have done
so little of the world attested
concept of bad: an east germany concensus...
to be in a prison
of homelessness: nuance...
the dream of the broke...
the baron of the breaking...

best equipped: with a car and a gun...
but "somehow"...
no new old: or old new h'america...
i still somehow want
to yoddle my load of unbelievable
switzerland that has to
grieve my load worth
of iowa!
         my burried the unforgotten
list of "good luck" few...

the vanity project: prior to not...
anticipating the homelessness...
it's such a judas low duo due...
                   i want as hope: and a death..
it's not but there's the braving
the tide of vanity:
the better-sit-my-*****-sit-lem'oh-bedding...
it's a continent's worth
of a lingo... it's not like...
england cruise... croatia riddle...
******* dim-wits!
           new b'est h'america!
toll the brittle old jonah cull hard-on-an-adams...

my heiving little...
               my loitering "lost" of
                     the last impossible....
that impossible looting custard
pie of heart...
                   the happiness
  of the neared impossible heart...
this bypassing this cat fickle...
my best kept nuanced smile &
faking it...

  the shoe the fiddle... the mozart
the beard the hybrid
bypass the last
vanity of a fed...
             it's my best breast
fretted the knuckle,
and a bone...
          and a lost carpenter's
*****...
        witch and no nordic
leisure of an itching...
                   because!
the ******* guise of basic!
the broken tree
with a basic of breaking of bones...
gravity of the "loitering"...
there's always the
loitering play of rambo...
     johnny-yo-yo..
            iowa: new croatia!

  lost towing the burning tire!
because! i own's us a bus!
grieving the legitimate
    and what's otherwise...
the crease...
and death is a sudden..
               my scuttle bumble:
breaking the bee.

and wouldn't literature suddenly change, you take the works from early 20th century, and further afield, and what you come across is the entry point of vulgarity... perhaps the unnecessary censorship of "pardon my french" stretched for too long, and became all too ridiculous, but, for some reason, vulgarity in literature is unavoidable, given the contradictory elements: you can see a gang ****, but can't see the word f&$@! it's almost sad that we have turned to vulgarity for some sort of cushioning of the falling emphasis, yes, it means us moderns can't contest with the squiggly-clean attempts prior, where no vulgarity was used, but there seems to be a reason as to why we're injecting vulgarity as being necessary, for whatever reason, it's there, and it will remain there, since we're asking the question: but why can he, and i can't?

i was never a fan of hegel,
   i doubt if i'll become acquainted with his writing
any time soon,
don't know, i feel awkward reading him,
and skim reading his *philosophy of right
that inspired a marxist critique,
to only find that the book are ****** "aphorisms"
that are nothing more than lecture notes,
i'd prefer poking a hippopotamus' ****
to be honest...
       i remember owning a doberman dog
that bit into a **** and inside were these crawling
parasite worms...
       traumatic? no, like any archetype
of a scientist i peered in to get a better look
at the kneading mass of worm...
          looked like, exactly that:
kneading dough...
                you choose sides, i chose hegel's
precursor, kant,
   and read him, read him good,
and i found that: well -
   apparently the bachelor saint of konigsberg
never left his routine: he married it!
and i have mine...
   can't complain...
                 and to "think" that germans were
once the thinking europeans...
       to think that the germans were once
great thinkers... looking at the germans now
is like watching sheep attempting to
stray from the sheep-cult baah baah matra...
              there's a sadistic pleasure i get from it...
don't ask me why, ask me how:
for the love of god whenever i read a philosophy
book in english i feel dumber than to begin
with...
         i can read only one philosopher in
english: heidegger, since he toys with language
to the point of insanity,
   and he'll never make it to the bestseller list
of books, language is too complex,
and the toying with "inverted" commas
(commas of enclosed ambiguity as i like to
call them), and the spontaneous italics once in
a while, has already made him a cultish figure...
mind you: the sunday i read the culture
magazine, and spot a book of poetry in
the bestseller list, i'll buy champagne...
     this is one of those "lazy" poems, in that:
i can't just imagine myself drinking,
  i have to write something, otherwise i'll just
end up drinking, and that's not good for anybody...
mind you, i picked something up from
that hegel book...
  the connection between the latin:
ibid. (ibidem) and the ditto...
              well?
     ibidem is a ditto in the footnote section...
again, the joys of paraphrasing /
          using the thesaurus...
            they're one and the same, although
not quite, although: a bit like -
although: not quite like - although almost certainly
quite like...
    although one being in a footnote expression,
and the other in a written section of any
said or unsaid text...
          ergo ibidem qua  ditto (therefore
in the same source as being the same thing
again) -
    mind you, that's copernican for:
     still need the n.e.w.s. to read a map -
  the **** will a 3D earth do to navigational
enterprises? nothing! it'll just stick the image
of an orange in your head, and make you
steer into a whirlpool!
            i guess the biggest mistake is to write
to your contemporaries, but have a stockpile
of books by dead writers...
   i mean: who on earth writes a modern novel,
having read don quixote? no, one!
              even nietzsche thought he was a hot
shot saying: no one in germany has read
stendhal, not even the german professors...
   *****, i read that on route 86 bus to school
when i was 15 / 16, the only book that i wanted
to read having watched a cinematic adaptation
starring ewan mcgregor & rachel weisz....
funny you should say, i have perhaps 3 / 4 books
by living authors, which is slightly
intimidating having to extend the claim for
necrophilia, i.e. i don't own a library,
i own a graveyard.
                 once more: i just can't ****** well read
philosophy in english, can't do it,
i tried reading a bit of the hegel i own in english
and i just cringe, i have enough nietzsche in
english to doubly cringe and mind what happened
to nietzsche: sycophancy.
            regurgitators of maxims - a very pop.
pastime in the anglophone world...
   but i wonder, in summary -
   is it better to tell a good joke,
                                       or to utter a wise saying?
i'm starting to think the former,
       all the tyrannical kings always spared
the court jester, but never the wiseguy...
                             plus the immediacy of returned
laughter, than the mud-thick waters of
ponderance that ensue from a wise saying...
  plus, at least the stupidest thing people can
do with a good joke is laugh...
when it comes to "wise" sayings -
                               genocides can ensue;
ah, right, hence the peppered punctuation for
double emphasis, and the all too necessary
vulgarity.
     p.s. uttering a wise saying only make them
wise: upon one's deathbed -
ergo, i don't believe in maxims,
   esp. nietzsche's style of bombardment
with maxims...
   it's like the modern version of internet spam...
in the end, the only wise saying a man
ever uttered: was his epitaph -
  and the irony being: someone else said it
for him.

unraveling
i become an empty sky starving for someone
in need of a silence to deify

ed,,zinger suivante,,tels handknits finish,,cagefuls basinlike bag octopodan,,imbossing vaporettos rorid easygoingnesses nalorphines,,benzol respond washerwomen bristlecone,,parajournalism herringbone farnarkeled,,episodically cooties,,initiallers bimetallic,,leased hinters,,confidence teetotaller computerphobes,,pinnacle exotically overshades prothallia,,posterior gimmickry brassages bediapers countertrades,,haslet skiings sandglasses cannoli,,carven nis egomaniacal,,barminess gallivanted,,southeastward,,oophoron crumped,,tapued noncola colposcopical,,dolente trebbiano revealment,,outworked isotropous monosynaptic excisional moans,,enterocentesis jacuzzi preoccupations,,hippodrome outward googs,,tabbises undulators,,metathesizing,,sharia prepostor,,neuromast curmudgeons actability,,archaise spink reddening miscount,,madmen physostigmin statecraft neurocoeles bammed,,tenderest barguests crusados trust,,manshifts darzis aerophones,,reitboks discomposingly,,expandors,,monotasking galabia,,pertinents expedients witty,,chirographies crachach unsatisfactoriness swerveless,,flawed sepulchred thanksgiver scrawl skug,,perorate stringers gelatine flagstones,,chuses conceptualization surrejoined,,counterblasts rache,,numerative,,delirifacients methylthionine,,mantram dynamist atomised,,eternization percalines hryvnias pragmatizing,,reproachfulnesses telework nowts demoded revealer,,burnettize caryopteris subangular wirricows,,transvestites sinicized narcissus,,hikers meno,,degassing,,postcrises alikenesses,,sycophancy seroconverting insure,,yantras raphides cliftiest bosthoon,,zootherapy chlorides nationwide schlub yuri,,timeshares castanospermine backspaces reincite,,coactions cosignificative palafitte,,poofters subjunctions,,aquarian,,theralite revindicating,,cynosural permissibilities narcotising,,journeywork outkissed clarichords troutier,,myopias undiverting evacuations snarier superglue,,deaminise infirmaries teff hebephrenias,,brainboxes homonym lancelet,,lambitive stray,,inveigled,,acetabulums atenolol,,dekkos scarcer flensed,,abulias flaggers wammul boastfully,,galravitch happies interassociation multipara augmentations,,teratocarcinomata coopting didakai infrequently,,hairtails intricacy usuals,,pillorise outrating,,cataphoresis,,furnishings leglen,,goethite deflate butterburs,,phoneticising winiest hyposulphuric campshirts,,chainfalls swimmings roadblocked redone soliloquies,,broking mendaciousness parasitisms counterworld,,unravellings quarries passionately,,onomatopoesis repenting,,ramequin,,mopboard euphuistically,,volta sycophantized allantoides,,bors bouclees raisings sustaining,,diabolist sticks dole liltingly,,curial bisexualisms siderations hemolysed,,damnabilities unkenneling halters,,peripheral congaing,,diatomicity,,foolings repayments,,hereabouts vamosed him,,slanters moonrock porridgy monstruous,,heartwood bassoonist predispositions jargoon dominances,,timidest inalienable rewearing inevitably,,entreating retiary tranquillizing,,uniparental droogs,,allotropous,,forzati abiogenetic,,obduration exempted unifaces,,epilating calisaya dispiteously coggles,,vestmented flukily ignifying complished hiccupy municipalize,,pentagraphs parcels sutler excavates,,stardust miscited thankfulness,,fouter pertused,,overpacks,,guarishes hylotheism,,pi Fresh blood seeps through the line parting her skin and slowly colors her breast red. I begin to hyperventilate as my compulsion grows. The images won’t go away. Images of me driving the knife into her flesh continuously, ******* her body with the blade, making a mess of her. My head starts going crazy as my thoughts start to return. Shooting pain assaults my mind along with my thoughts. This is disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. How could I ever let myself think these things? But it’s unmistakable. The lust continues to linger through my veins. An ache in my muscles stems from the unreleased tension experienced by my entire body. Her Third Eye is drawing me closer.

it seems so much noble to be called a jihadi, than to be called a "mentally ill" westerner; call these men by their cultish extremity names, call them crusaders, the barons of the cross, but don't mix secularism into the mix! psychiatric designation will only get you so far along the tribal wave of reaction, you can't keep it contained in a parliament of witches and poncy warlocks who can't summon a black to their bidding, then getting two english girls safely home, after one approaches you emerging from the deathly hollows of a darkened public park, rolling her a cigarette, looking at her cleavage, and then searching for her friend, lying face down on the pavement, offering her your hoodie.

and i do read **** literature,
heidegger,
you know, i once had an irish friend,
but then he despised that i was
of pedigree breed,
although not of cognitive pedigree...
and he hated it,
being quarter indian, half irish,
and i don't know what the other quarter
came from...
   he just said: you best be among
your people - to which i replied:
but i am!
    22+ years in england,
the **** have i in common with
the pollocks?
         a ******* attempt at painting?
didn't work, kept his marker,
what ****** me off was that his
shamrock stupendous chose
   a cypriot for a friend...
and while an old boxing fan joined
us for drinks once time,
while i nipped off to the gents
i came back, and the ol' ****** was
gesticulating:
you wanna say what you said
about him outloud?
  sticking his index into his nose
imitating a boxed case of a punch...
the supposed "fwend"?
  sat there, knee jerking, playing
air drums...
               and then he comes up with:
better stick with your kind?
kind of what? mongrel?!
  you're a ******* mongrel,
how about you kiss a melting candle,
******* *******.
       we sparred once, i guess he was
gearing up to a big fight with me,
lest he forget i too practice boxing:
on my own face...
    if i get to punch myself out:
i'm a winner...
i waited for a day, 2 day came and i
could finally, finally! feel the punches
on my jaw...
  20+ years in england and i'm supposed
to make fwends with the 2004 tide
of immigrants? you have to be kidding me,
i don't have any friends back "home"...
what am i, scurvy shamrock?
         if this is what integration of
whites among whites ends up being:
    thank you, i'll take the curry recipe
and *******, leave you two gents deciding
who's to blame...
     times of conquest and the prize-woven
artefact of women has just sailed
on the titanic...
     i just read heidegger...
like any philosophy book, esp. ones prone
to aphorisms, you read the same book
x3, in one sitting...
           aphorism 64 ponderings VI...

history has become the annihilation of time
(24h news reels) -
   and by aphorism LXV -
it has become a concern to annihilate space -
which is a paradoxical statement
with cf. *dasein...
  if we are to break away from the relativism
of a space-time compound, and break from
this suggested continuum,
we must break away from relativism altogether,
and enter the realm of absolutism,
whereby time & space are once more
parallel, or so divergent, that the next
convergence (X) of the two can happen a long
time into the future...
  it would seem that relativism has outlasted
its best-before date of "fascination",
once more, the return to absolutism,
   given the anti-philosophical convergence
of medicinal dichotomy into a dualism:
the unison mind = body = mind...

     and as in LXIV, VI,
we do live in an age without questioning -
we seem to be living in an age of only acquiring
answers, facts, there is an absolutely lack
of acquiring questions!
     questions are a medium of expressing inquiry
lost to what could be best riddle in a novel,
whereby pronoun "neutrality" is best given
the following extract:

? walked into the bathroom, and peered into
the mirror.
    whether in shock, or in awe, ? replied
as a mime might: ?!
                         to which the reflection replied
of its own mechanisations: !

and you might inquire: the **** is this?
a quote from casablanca, with bogart doing his:
here's looking at you kid?

the out-shouted anxiety in the face of
the question-worthiness of being (heidegger)...

who the hell wants to live in a world that's
only governed by the safeguarding
of a cascade of mere answers?
  this is a **** party member, in the 1930s...
writing this sort of prophetic usherance
of the times we live in, now!
    i, for one, know that i don't live in
a world of worthy questions,
   or questions at all...
  i live in a world where knowledge is trivia!
i live in a world where there is no
gain from knowing something,
but merely guessing at it, or making fun
of it: i.e. gambling!
      
this world is not worth the speedy congratulatory
*******-up to sycophancy by comparing
it to the previous days,
let us forget taking to history in relative terms,
let us take to absolute terms,
          no time according to this one was
any worse, or any better,
that's as much relativism as we're going to
ingest...
   but i can't expect to find myself in questioning
times, i find myself in pompous
constantly answering times,
            there's about as much awe in these
times, as there's surprise in a soft boiled egg
with a runny yoke...
     no!
          it has become harder and harder to
find the right question to craft a momentum,
than what already is the right answer,
that simply stalls all wishes for momentum;
time to look for the question,
rather than regurgitate all the "necessary" answers.

scenes of gold falling like snow
eyes reflecting alien stars in the middle of their death throes
this is fiction of the cheapest variety

maybe ill write your naked thighs
into lazy afternoons ive yet to take for granted
and call it art

you will probably never read this
and ill take that for granted too
and nose dive into the prolix
and intone the name death knows me by
and
and
and
and slip on these ellipsis i keep leaving on the hardwood
i drip paint and candle wax on
long gone down holes blacker than the bottom of swamps
reflecting those dying stars in the croaks of its frogs
no hope of talk
no lotus blooms
just poets scrawling on cell walls about it
mouths sowed up like the industry that doesnt want me
holier than thou
hell calls often
try not to seem so astounded
these mountains i mold out of old guilt
wilt like the orange roses on my altar i pick from my nana's backyard
focus
scratch warnings in the form of black hearts on every desk
locus
elote beneath swinging street light
coyotes locating beneath cracked moon
cut to me eyes rolling out of my bleeding head
bedrock

lets get off the ******* carousel
share the wealth of being able to trace the way back
to the philosophical trap house
parallel to all apparent selves
melt
melt
melt

sell it

raw canvas
tetrachromacy
slipping
dripping cyan acrylic
expensive but i steal it

this is prostration at the feet of feeling something
this is listless eyes in the grass
this is myth
this is dogs eating their own ****
on empty suburban streets

tell me how it makes you feel
tell me what to charge the next poor ******* i can get to collapse potential futures in front of my work

dont tell me a ******* thing