Life is like a pizza. You crave for a larger one, thinking that you're hungry enough to finish everything yourself. That's like yourself 10 years ago, wanting to become an adult. Now that you're halfway there, all you want to do is go back to being a kid. Sometimes the pizza is too hot, and you've got to wait for it to settle down before shoving it down your throat. The same way, life gets a little rough sometimes, so you sit and wait impatiently, till it gets better. Sometimes, the pizza's too cold. So you heat it up a little. The same way, life gets a little boring sometimes. So you get yourself involved in **** that doesn't necessarily need your attention, under the name of "you only live once". Some pizza toppings are pushed away, because you don't like how it tastes. The same way, you neglect people just because you don't like them. On the other hand, you can't get enough of some pizza toppings. They're too good to stop eating. Those are like family and best friends, you just can't stay away. Although sometimes too much of the same topping makes you want to throw up, you order it the next time anyway, just because you like it. All said and done, at the end of the day, you finish the pizza. That's like death. You really wish there was more pizza, but there's just no more. Sometimes, there's too much, you throw it away. That symbolises suicide. When there's too much to deal with, and you just end it. The only difference is, you can always order another box of pizza, but you can't order another box of life.

lessons in graffiti, or the Pinocchio giraffe;
and was the H absolutely necessary
when otherwise asking of a cappuccino
or at your local caf? evidently there was distinction
with the mocha too, but that won't matter,
otherwise the language isn't used... but abused.

lessons in graffiti, or other confectionary products,
while you ooze the shopping experience
on your daily commute,
       *skittels on brickwork with the origins
of the #, cut short by simply the graffiti tag,
      you wrote tag, without the collective hash,
  not so much noughts and crosses gaming,
or remembering your phone number,
                  here graffiti: or the rekindling of
trademarks in the urban scenic bypass,
or: truly under the bridge.
             writing on money does very little:
but writing on newspapers? that say a lot,
the odd day i write something on a newspaper
review section and feel almighty -
        which is much more than the rage against
the machine instructions are about:
   write a message on a penny, it's still a penny,
write a message on a dollar, it's still a dollar,
but write a message on a newspaper:
you's basically encapsulating shouting at a protest!
() hence the picture.
             r.s. (receptui scriptum):
         i never knew whether the dot belonged in
the ). or the .) part of encapsulation, if that's to be
worded or acutely pill-sized embryo,
that bypasses the oesophagus workout before
the hydrochloric gym acidity.
   how is one to make science human again?
how is one to make science lessened in the Frankenstein
myth and the ostracized ostrich citizens
that scientists very much so, actually are?
       my notes on the matter?
non-existent: i see the feminist movement
i.e. there are more women than men as such
as not a case of **** culture, but as a case of "i'm not
getting any!" call in the Vikings,
mind you, even the supermarket cashier looked
astounded in between Friday and Saturday,
  on Friday a litre of whiskey
    on Saturday a litre of whiskey...
and some men climb the Everest or walk the moon...
while some envision their liver
as a Klitschko - the tetragrammaton exists only
because people made aesthetic suggestions / blunders,
it's a suggestion in the sur- or what's otherwise a surd /
a silent nonetheless inserted atom of sprechen:
like Nietzsche and Klitschko: you say less than you
write... out pops the tetragrammaton -
        if ever Caesar Octavian needed a teacher
my vanity suggests i'd done better teaching him
than Aristotle teaching Alexander, or Seneca teaching
Nero...
                  it's all down to excessive spelling, or
the keeping up of appearances, or simply looking
bizarre, and like in mathematics, there's a remainder,
what yhwh represents is in linguistic terms
as in mathematical terms: what's left over, scraps...
see it differently and it becomes gold:
five fish, two loaves of bread sort of scenario.
                           it's a remainder -
it cannot be eradicated, denied or be left into a limbo
of diminished responsibility
      it's man concern with how language should
look and how painting should feel:
               the fact that we created art from letters
and forgot our concern for art representing forms
is not postmodernism, it's post-Platonism; finally!
of course the s and the z are the crude and the refined
versions of each other via the transition of
being modulated by the chirality enzyme,
          but they're still called zigzag twins -
there's no delta involved akin to one face of a pyramid.
how grand then, to be living in a time
when a single phonetic encoding of sound
transcends into complex meaning:
akin to s and sigma and what's mathematically
the sum / total of constipated matter...
                    strange how the Cartesian model
falters thus,
           the fact that i think is never the ending
causality of my being's summation:
           it's but a summary, but never the summation /
sum - it's never the arithmetically sound answer:
hence the god-implant, or as i said:
the remainder, which i can't erase from the realm
of thought.
                 by the way? no Jew could have wrote as
much about their god as i have:
as said: the crucifixion was worthwhile,
      but there was no question that Latin had
to remain -
                     what was saved was the Latin encoding,
not some puny redemption from doing ****...
**** no! you couldn't create robotics or write
software without Latin: no other encoding has as
many "blank" hula hoops as already provided:
Q, R, o, P, p, A, a, D, d, g, b, B...
        26 x 2? 52 - and of those how many are spies
that we are descended from the gods and can
create our slowly-ascending replicas in robotics?
as the list suggests: 12.
     should i call up St. Peter and the rest to work
out the ******* numbers of correlation in
the framework of mirror / anti?
                      ah, the eagerly waiting public:
speak of the devil... and he shall appear.
      that ****'s been going on since the death of a man
in the year 1900...
           and oh my, the search has been gruelling,
you have Western Europe remembering the 1st
and Eastern Europe trying to not remember the 2nd...
   the name's Mars... while i say: try Moby **** first:
because god knows what's lurking in the depth.
or maybe i got my bearings wrong? maybe language
truly is a statement of Bermuda magnetics
that makes all compasses into twirling ballerinas?
to me? what comes with authenticity is a good joke,
nothing remotely suggesting a seriousness:
or as Wittgenstein said: have a joke, make a joke,
compose everything with a joke in mind -
        oh the fringe minority still have a bargain on
identity in this field, they're brewing their next cup
of tea brown-nosing and fidgeting over how to
answer... oh i'm mad enough to turn on the Mr. Bombastic
attitude, 1L of whiskey in a single night goes a long
way in terms of unwinding and making vocab verbiage,
or counter to that: something worthy of an antique status.
still, a reminder, the yhwh is the Jews' great
present, expressed dutifully in English as equivalent
of the mathematical remainder:
                      only because the diacritical bargain
wasn't met with much approval:
what with the elites wanting to push a global rather than
a solely Mediterranean twist on the plot of how:
a revival?          well... combing back to the ulterior
motive for graffiti, an elitist sport, your handwriting
over printed press rather than Coca Cola sorta similar
on a brick wall: i'm telling you, handwriting is
a bit like wanking these days...
         but isn't it true that when we write we are
sorta becoming radiologists? aren't poems essential
x-rays? am i not simply showing you my bones?
these isn't skeletal? you sure?
and there's me thinking that America is on
the threshold of romanticising the French Revolution,
with the former concern? to reinstate a Polish
state, i.e. the Duchy of Warsaw...
              but it's not really a first world war reparations
injustice while the Germans used money instead
of wood to warm themselves in winter...
no, nothing can be said that would ever appeal
to the fact that the Third ***** was milked:
not even Indiana Jones had a ******* of that horror;
me? i took the best of the ****** affair,
the fully bewildered insurance broker of the zeitgeist:
Heidegger, and yes, i made more apologetics with
him than philosophy: as with an fatal attraction:
be it the bazar flute charmer of the cobra -
this one is bound to sting in the ***.
then another thing hit me, usually an internet
variance off state media... you ever wonder why
very claustrophobic pronoun usage (frequent interchange)
is almost equivalent of brawling with someone?
dreams of Angelique:
                     imagine a scene at a protest (two people):
- i doesn't matter what you think! your opinions are not relevant!
- true, as is the case of: you don't matter with regards
                 to what i think.
anyone spot this concentrated pronoun use
for the purpose of aversed violence via a degradation
emphasis, concerned with defending sported violence
but not social injustice : turned into justified violence?
   (yes, colon as ratio, variant of fractions,
meaning? less comparative literature of the fraction,
   and more divergence of authority within the Libra
of what's necessarily unfair: the whole is no authority
to distribute fairness);
  it's just that i feel the relentless overuse of pronouns
in a confrontation symbolises a need to use the body
rather than the tongue -
when too many pronouns are interchanged
and the repugnant pronoun collectivisation begins
the paranoid "they" and the sane "we" -
            well... Rη-oh! Rη-oh! Rη-oh!     (sheen sheen Mecca
       ism)
                             well hardly ref. to Brazil: rhy ate!
rhy ate!
                see how that tetragrammaton remainder just,
like, plops up like a baby gazelle from the mama
gazelle's ******? plop! and no diapers either.
ah: the cruelty. or as someone said:
  few letters are given geometric status, or at least
something remotely symbolising twins,
but still there are a few:
   m - sine (trigonometry)
   w - cosine (     "              )
  Δ - Pythagoras for short
      LΓ - the right hand
                  and the left hand in the non-superimposable
          categorisation of things
   ψ - the devil's barrister / i.e. a fork
     also 8008135 upside-down on a calculator screen
(insert a weird face) -
   χ - compass convergence, i.e. the point b
        you need to get to from your starting point oh,
and i guess H       for a rugby goal...
             oh hell, only a few phonetic encodings make
it out of blah blah land -
                       and without really wanting
to orientate myself on the origins of things:
i'm getting a suntan basking in all of this
in the immediate sense: actually using it.
                             and to think: we actually think
about what we talk about using only 26 symbols?
that's ****** effective,
                             which is why we were so keen
to spread out encoding system to think / say things.
and why the Chinese felt the greatest pull of gravity
in all of mankind and due to their ideograms
got pulled way way down and just say there:
which enabled them to reproduce on a scale such as
is apparent to us exporting our manual labour to
them: who the hell would want to learn
unit wording when it can be wording units?
       they have words we treat as onomatopoeia
shrapnel -
                   which is why we have enshrined ourselves
to sit on laurel leaves with Mozart:
     if ever us, then never us: linguistic atomists
                                            who perversely dissect
words into, what i can only call: a Lingua Table of
the 26 elements. it's there, it's naked, compared
with the diacritical approach: English is all
and Adam & Eve ready for a voyeuristic spelling
out of realities - hence the plural:
    there was never one intentional crowd-surfer out
there to make people form cults, plagiarise
and sooner than later: get lost.

The streets of Paris -
the long walks
in the drizzle of rain
the lamp posts
and the ornate structures
are not quite as beautiful
when you're holding
her hand.

No Eiffel tower
can tell you
how much I love you
The warm waft
of a croissant
is not enough
even when washed down
with hot chocolate
to take away
this bitter taste.

The Pont de l'Archeveche,
the love lock bridge.
they say the padlock
symbolises eternal love
throwing the key
into the river
binds us
everlasting.
But just like the key
you are gone
forever.

An open letter to teachers
I love learning
You make think that’s odd considering the blank look I have on my face every lesson
But it’s true
However when you put me in a room of thirty other kids I don’t get along with
Or don’t like learning too
It kinda kills the mood
Whilst learning definitions is important and I understand
You’ll forgive me for looking out of the window for a few minutes before tuning back in
You’re just as bored as me I know
But of course you’ll never let it show
After all
Your class is the most important of them all
Thirty minutes of homework a night at least
I study 6 other subjects
Each of them requiring at least thirty minutes too
That’s three and a half hours of work a night
Plus eight hours of school
That’s a twelve hour work day
So you’ll forgive me for yawning in your class
Afterall I stayed up til 12am the night before doing the work you set me
No of course not
How dare I yawn in your lesson?
That’s right it is incredibly rude
It is my fault I stayed up so late the night before
Doing work that you set me
How dare I?
I apologise

I love learning
But I don’t like sitting in a room of 150 other kids doing an exam
Spending three nights before fitting into my head all that I could cram
So I could have you stand over me and watch me as I write
Or the giant dreaded clock counting down from 100 to 0
Each minute going faster as I struggle to calculate how many times 0 goes into 100
Asking a question that can’t be answered
“You won’t be able to ask questions in real life”
That’s odd because my work place embraces asking questions
On the bottom of every sheet saying ‘ask the manager if you don’t know how to do these jobs’
But that’s not the real world
Part time work is not the real world
Flipping burgers at Maccas is not the real world
But it seems pretty real to me

I love learning
When I was 8 loved to do maths
Triangles and squares and circles it all came naturally
Then you started implying that maths was a boy’s area
That only boys do well and boys can succeed
I lost that love
Took a left turn at maths and English lane
Whether that was the best or worst choice I’ve ever made I’m here now
A poet who can count to 100 in threes languages but can’t make sense of the letter x
What’s it doing there?
Isn’t maths just numbers?
Are English and maths crossing over?
No
X and represents everything and 1 all at once
Just like how the conch symbolises law and order?
No
It’s just a number
A number that needs to be worked out
Ten lines at least to work out x
A million different solutions and trial and error will not be one
It’s the cheat’s way out
The girl’s way out

I love learning
My maths teacher taught me to love maths again
My English teacher taught me English was not just a constellation
My drama teacher taught me drama is so much more than the stage
But maybe this is all too late
Because when I’ve spent my life waiting to fall in love with maths again
My love for maths was lost
My love for learning was lost
My drive is lost
I love learning
But not as much as I used to

I wish I caught chickenpox two months and two weeks ago.
Who would have imagined the painful discomfort,
to have a direct correlation with remodelling my rationality.
Even after a speedy recovery and two weeks later, the scars
on my otherwise genetically-blessed-clear-face, and all over
my rather well shaped body symbolises a deep story.
Life is not worth wasting on those who don't care enough.
As insomnia struck night after night, mixing thoughts with
nightmares and episodes of Vampire Diaries excessively
watched through out the day on a laptop balanced on my
torso as I laid on my sick bed, I had plenty of time to think.
I thought about how Mr. X only contacts me when he
needs comfort, solace, assurance, care, all on his terms.
Mr. Y, only to gloat how he just had *** or if he needed
an ego boost, and he stopped texting all together long ago.
Mr. Z, who I thought was going too well to be true bailed
after our first date got cancelled due to me catching the pox.
All in all at every stage in my life for the past decade,
I have wasted my time on a Mr. Wrong and it's pathetic.
Apart from having a date on Valantine's day, making out,
endless string of inspiration to write shallow poetry,
I have gained nothing but heart break and sad memories.
The one time my mother would quote Beyonce to say,
they all turned out to be the best thing I never had.

(This mentions suicide)

Scene 1

A university campus, just gone five.
It’s already dark and the moon is out,
distorted as though the sky has been
blocked out with a pane of frosted glass.
There’s something not right,
what with the moon and
the lack of light on campus.

I enter, running away.

I: I’m wondering how fast I can move my legs
without running. I just need everyone to get
out of my way. It’s too dark and the moon’s
not right. How rude am I?
How rude am I?
The shadows are walking – slowly –
too slowly, and I just need to get out of here.
I ran out of classroom, the first one out.
How rude am I?
I want to apologise for who I am as a person.
It’s too dark to be here, amongst the shadows.
The people are the darkness,
everything is the darkness.
How rude am I?

SHE needs to calm down.
The dark is nothing but winter coming on,
and it’s only in poetry that winter
symbolises death, misery and decay.
The trees are losing their leaves,
but there’s no loss if it keeps
them safe.
Campus is a dark place,
but SHE needs to calm down
because it’s her who’s
made it haunted.

Scene 2

A hill, steep and sluggish.
I is still half running,
stepping into the road
and back onto the pavement
before the headlights can catch her.

I: It would all be fine if I could just get out on time.
Why do I need to keep running away?
I want to run.
(She was hit by a car, smashed a leg.
What happened?
I wasn’t looking, because I was rushing.
I just stepped out because I didn’t care anymore
because I just needed to get on the train.)
I hope I’m not making noises.
If the headlights catch me,
will I look scared?
What do I look like?

I crosses her fingers, still half-running.

The house is fine. The guinea pigs are fine.
It hasn’t been set on fire.
(What keeps you alive?
My guinea pigs.)
No, imagine everyone else talking about
all the things life has to offer.
(What keeps you alive?
Laziness.
Laziness?
I can’t be bothered to **** myself.
That’s all that keeps you alive?
Yes.)
No.
No. I wouldn’t do it anyway.
This self who talks like that is the fictional self
in my head, the one I want to sometimes be
who can talk about things
and get into these perfect situations
where she can talk about things.
You can’t look at the time until you get to the bottom of the hill.

Scene 3

A road, leading to the station.
I looks ridiculous half running,
as if the university is
going to grow legs and
start chasing her.
I can barely breathe
because she’s got ten minutes
to do a five minute journey.

SHE needs to calm down,
but cut her some slack.
The moon doesn’t look right tonight.

I: (I missed the train so I go up,
over the bridge and wait
for the freight train and then
I throw myself under it.)
I try to think how much it will
hurt but I can’t imagine it.
I won’t do it.
Nearly there now.
The moon doesn’t look right.

SHE really can’t imagine it.

I: Time to daydream.

I puts herself in another body
and goes about in their life
whilst her feet touch
the ground and her body
touches the air.
Her mind is
literally
elsewhere.

Scene 4

A station. The ground
is dusted with grit, ready
for winter – the practical
winter, not the poetic one.

Enter I. She finds her place on the station.
Her legs hurt.

The train is due on time,
and sure enough, it
curves round the corner,
lighting up the tracks.

SHE *really needs to calm down.

I've written 64 poems about you.
Let this be the last.
I plead and I beg you,
Become a thing of my past.

If you love me
Then leave me
Like you left me before,
When you left me for dead on our ***-tainted floor.

Get out, get out of my brain and my head,
Out from under my skin and the sheets of my bed.

I'm not asking for our memories to be all erased,
Just asking to ease the pain of lovesick and daze.
I'm asking for my thoughts to be clear of this haze,
And to find love easier than in the paths of this maze.

Is it too much to ask to come down from your high?
To remove the imprint of handprint from my hideous thigh?
To fall down from something which once made me fly?
This rhyme scheme's a mess and I can only guess why.
It symbolises the chaotic and desperate tears that I cry.
And I cry off my makeup only to reapply
Mascara tears that give me another black eye.
And I cry and I cry till my eyes are run dry.
Want to know something else I hate about I?
I said this is the last but I know that's a lie.

Sometimes I look up to the sky and have a longing to propel myself outwards amongst the stars and planets and fragments of dust that cling together in desperation, attempting to create some planetary mass that someone, somewhere, might one day call their home.

The earth looks on. We go about our lives, venturing to her highest peaks and trekking across the open plains. We cultivate crops in the soil and celebrate when the rains flow from the skies and into the rivers and streams and taps and glasses on the dinner tables of business men and dying veterans, and the child who laughs at the forming of the rainbow, that symbolises the unavoidable end of this dream that we have grown so comfortable with.

The earth looks on and is indifferent. We gouge away, we poison, we pollute and we pillage the lands, and expect to fill that void within us. Destroying the very planet that has given us birth so that we might find ourselves, find our way. Yet the more we gouge and poison and pollute and pillage, the further away from this idealised end do we find ourselves. For we do not only destroy the earth; we destroy ourselves. A drop of poison in the ocean is but one more in our cup. As we pollute the skies, so do our minds become clouded and our vision becomes obscured by the continually evolving chaos we find ourselves in, and we double and triple our efforts to maintain order so that we might fill that ever present void.

Should one look to the stars or the depths of his mind to find that which he seeks? The deeper we dig, the higher the towers rise above our heads. One cannot stand on a mountain top and deny the existence of the stream that flows effortlessly through the valley. Swim amongst the clouds and glide with the raindrops and rainbows will make their homes amongst you.

a book just fell off my shelf after i read some female poetry online... coincidentality... the safety net of superstition; or at least a prompt... an unloved woman can reach tartarus... given souls only reach hades' lava lamp of flux; believe me, this **** stays... women take too many inspirations from the natural world... which means men take to creating a metaphysical world they can escape to... she acts the mantis... i act the talking *****.

thankfully i trained my cats so they rudely
wake me up,
  the last dream i had about running
on this pythagorean hypotenuse *****
trying to catch sheep that were chased
by demonic figures decapitating them...
i sleep better these days,
    i think that's a reason for owning cats,
you mature with them,
         but i'd suggest owning dogs
in your childhood, children love dogs,
cats don't love children... but then that's a flimsy
argument to even have a dialectic about...
   people love to have opinions,
and i agree, they should, so that they can subsequently
have emotions; by now socrates is
a surgeon of emotions, have them? not have them?
but then you read some poetry by a woman
who's shrouded in the guise of an online
anthill... and a subsequently a book flies
off your bookshelf onto the floor...
oddly enough a book bought by your first love...
yesterday, to-day and forever,
by *edward henry bickersteth d. d.
           figure that acronym out you modern
pundits! or should i add: late bishop of exeter...
do i believe in ghosts? no, but
a subjectivity counts if i'm not writing about facts
and this need to constantly make things
object-object related... nothing in real life
deems object-object relations to be the real concern
for talking, or what's the current theme via
political-correctness... that's why we have
antique dealers, or why we have
                      a picasso at sotheby's rather than
tate modern... the object-subject relation,
worth, or the appreciation of,
               some even go as far as mad and write
zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance
         rambling on about quality,
or **** ex uno unto uno - and yes i used
that english conjunction because i'm not about to
ponce off the latin italic phraseology
for "rhetorical" purposes...
              since it only means man from one unto
one thing considered... say, that's self-explanatory
given men have passions... what we end up as,
carpenters, roofers, weathermen... poets?
          man out of one unto one...
                   it gets a bit fuzzy prior monkey
and how we came about... but thankfully we
have homosexuals allowed as to peer into the pre-darwin
reality of being a self-****** organism...
          at least we can understand being pre-monkey
something or other, because that's exactly were:
something or other...
                     since we reach a point between
monkey and the big bang where:
   language simply seizes to exist and the thing in question
that exactly express it... it's lost... ****!
  now comes the white rabbit pulled from a top hat.
that's why i don't exactly understand darwinism,
frankly monkeys are perfectly adaptable and
there's no need for them to adapt further...
   they're still here, aren't they?
         well... i'm just wondering when i'm going
to stumble and sound too insensible, or when the logic
of constructing words will fail me and i'll slop into
some kinda of dementia...
                
canvas: the most sinister psychiatric experiments
on men in england...
                      now i'm really laughing...
it's almost like i'm going via the route of
  kuru and dancing the hākā before the altar
of kālī (or as i say: that's better than attempting
a blow-job pose before the crucifix)...
                cultural ap prop what?!
                i don't want to have anything to do with
this "thing" that western society symbolises...
  i just see one massive asylum: lunar rex -
yes, where the moon reigns, or at least the most
necessary resource: oil, middle east;
                  ******* mad max fork in the road.

and the greatest thing about "poetry"?
you forget what you wanted to originally write,
best motivation for keeping a hard-on of narrative,
in audio sprechen though?
    don't know, i have to talk to this waiter,
doctor, politician and so many other people
before we can commune on having a personal life
a bit like trying to squeeze past
jim morrison to get to the other person...
   almost impossible, unless having been at
the parisian shrine of bolo bolo bolo...
          knock on door... get over it.

i know that i picked up a book on kabbalah by
aryeh kamplan prior and cited gematria -
and the book that fell off the bookshelf was probably
next to it and it was gently dislodged...
but that doesn't claim scientific details with what
i was thinking at the time... if i really wanted
to ensure i was scientifically accurate with my
cognitive narration, and call it gravity,
i'd be the one standing on the bridge contemplating
to jump off it...

            plus i mentioned gematria...
also called the assyrian / babylonian / greek bollocking...
which evidently doesn't mention the roman,
or what's otherwise the genius of I V X L C D M -
              but even that wasn't genius when it was
conquered... or what's the 7 heads in the book
of revelation / the cardinal sins...
         myth contra myth... that ends with no myth:
but the blatantly obvious staring right back at you...
which truly exposes the end of res cogitans
and the reign of res vanus... because
   the truth was so obvious that you can't even begin
to complicate it by giving a thought for it,
but like the devil said: idle hands? i have spares!

but i'm thankful that these two pair of cats talked
to my unconscious mind (whatever that means) -
   once i got out of bed and opened the door
to the garden i realised: ooooooooooh...
                 desperate to do your toilet business?
then it became self-evident what
the inability to dream can conjure in the waking
world... a pair of cats need to go to the toilet...
      seems my head isn't that far lodged into my ****
since i have absolutely no capacity to have a dream
other than two desperate cats needing the garden
to relief themselves... that's americanism, isn't it?
i'd probably add ease... or oompf on its own...
       probably why i never took to *** ****
having too much pleasure from easing a **** out -
or why latin names were kept: reasoning man / **** sapiens...
     given the proximity of the stated italics.

how rho uncouples -** and attaches itself to the remnants of alpha, given the suffix -lpha is done away with it, to create: ρα (fragrance of the woo ha ha lingering in the air) - ρα- ρα- ρασπυτιν! lover of the russian king... imagine rasputin in the hands of placebo - counter the original ghost story of: daddy cool... imagine! it's all Disney!

some say i reminded people of the φ:
                      some compare φ to outer beauty,
φ being the golden ratio: all bets are off:
whenever there is beauty, there's a number;
                           Proclus.
2,500 years ago: it's not that Greek civilisation
declined, it's only that so many bright skylarks
came in at one: akin to the Renaissance -
there was no decline, there was just a massive
******* of talent, it seems that Zeus
did the ******* with a swan and and an eagle,
and... bob's your uncle...
           there was decline, but there was no decline
because there was the sudden onslaught of instigation -
a decline would mean: first came Copernicus,
then Galileo, then Newton, then Einstein,
                        steadying revision
centuries apart... comparative association?
a gold rush... looking for nuggets and maulers
of rough cold - it was a collective light-bulb
moment... akin to the cold theory of
Jungian psychology that's the collective unconscious...
although the collective light-bulb moment
is particular in terms of history, in terms of
science, as is the Italian renaissance concerning art -
Martin Luther is the Socrates as the end of debauchery...
debauchery in a good sense: let the geniuses
seize, and the common man absorb their findings:
whether right, or wrong - we need common
threads of their offshoots, rebellious,
we need a common denominator.
back to φ (external beauty, and plastic surgery,
the perfect symmetry of the face,
from Phidias: the sculptor and mathematician -
can anyone tell me why *David's head is
over-sized? well, no φ went into that piece...
head's bigger than a watermelon,
body is proportioned well according to
limb-for-limb, but the head is a
balloon, why is it a classic? oi! send Isis
in to smash that **** to pieces!) -
so φ is all about external beauty,
we all know ψ (psi) stands for internal beauty,
psychological dynamics -
                                           plastic surgery,
in fractions: 1/2 (half), 1/3 (third), 1/4 (quarter),
                           1/5 (fifth) -
       apologies to Proclus: wherever there's a linguistic
symbol that symbolises both encoding of sound
   and a mathematical transition: there's double the beauty:
         1/φ,     2/φ,            3/φ              4/φ            -
       how when was the golden ratio made into a suiting
  equilibrium?
                          one leg shorter than the other?
   some say a lazy eye is as if an monocle -
            for all the constants it's the fractions that
  are decisive - the width of nose and the extent of
it's length is based on a 1:1 ratio
              ah crap! now i know my confusion!
   i was thinking of a silver fraction!
    never mind -
                               think gambling: 7 to 1...
          7/1                 maybe that's why i forgot ratio
    uses  colon, or, comparative emphasis -
                     the width of the mouth has no length,
               it's simply 1, or none -
                                      but from the edge of the face
to the first eye is measured as 1:φ
               i.e.                      eye                  eye
         [                               (    )                  (    )                            ]
     ­     <                1               >
          <                         φ                        >            
                                                                ­                             edge of face
top countries for face and head cosmetics:
   brazil: 10.8%         of global Σ, 430,375 procedures,     1st place,
   america: 10.4%      "      "       ", 413,140           "         ,     2nd   "    ,
   south korea: 7.8% "      "       ", 311,571           "         ,     3rd    "    ;
still, i'm more interested in how,
   you take rho and alpha and craft out Ra -
                     ρ               α                            Ρα -
    and where does -**               and -lpha go to?
                no wonder the Russians are the scientists
kindred heart of greece, and the inheritors of Latin
sing so much, fame themselves on music -
that's about right: the Slavs think well enough,
                    but, **** me... they can't sing for ****!
   jeeze! Disco Polo? that's one experience you
have to go through to understand -
                  what with Mendelyev
щ - e.g. szczypce (pliers) - shch - YZWZ - alter. -
             i.e. щypce -
            ш - e.g. szaszłyk (skewer) - шaшłyk
me? i'm standing at the time when god said:
oh, that ****** tower of Dubai? looks like we need
to spot the architect watching minding the glue...
э - well, that's currently know as the euro (currency) -
     so why ч (che / cha v. cze / cza)
   allowances, could be in addition also chu and cho and χ
           but... then it comes to
   ю (yu)              we have no yo, yi, ye, but instead
                       я (ya). peacock? me?
    just bemußed - and they're talking about an
identity crisis, never felt one, up to 2004,
when the floodgates opened and i wasn't the only
Pole in school - i hid all this time in English society,
and i was kinda accepted as a freak accident,
but then... after 2004... nothing special -
so like i once said: a psychological mongrel:
   yes, in English ß is: s-z-interchange -
sometimes smoothed, sometimes sharpened.

Paint your sky in the colour you choose.
Decorate it with the patterns you choose.
Compromise it in the way you choose.
Add defects that beautify your creation.

A broken heart symbolises newly gained intellect and maturity.
Your impurities define your beauty.

Like expensive perfumes
That make Kings and Queens
Have the scent of royalty
You have colonised me with your intoxicating fragrance.

Just as the presence of the unicorn makes a rainbow
And its beauty leaves lasting memories,
You have made a road map
That always makes me admire you in silvered mirror.

Like diamonds and gold, so precious and important
you are more important than the blood that runs through my veins

The fountain, lamb and ivory
Symbolises purity and hope,
You have become my symbol of life.

Just like the stars that twinkle radiantly
And the sun shines glamorously,  
So your eyes is like that of an angel
Making me to ask myself if your father is God.

Just like Grimhilde in Snow White who asked the mirror,
"Who is the fairest of them all?"
I ask my mirror,
If I am legible to enamour in your beauty.

They say true beauty comes
From the inside
But your the symbol and definition of true beauty,
mon coeur bat.

crowded markets
empty streets
faded hopes
blissful dreams.

there is one little place
where i belong
at a enduringly beautiful
time like this.

quiet mornings
noisy afternoons
filled with relatives
and long lost friends.

confused rituals
followed through the week
obliviously but with intent
to make it a happy new year.

don't sweep the floor
you'll sweep away the luck
don't wash your hair
or you'll lose the luck.

don't buy new shoes
on the very first week
or you'll be cursed
with many years of tragedy.

bring beautiful flowers
when visiting houses
because it symbolises
growth in life.

open the windows
wide and deep
allow in the wind
and also fortune.

4 word phrases
muttered everywhere
with intent of
receiving many 'ang paus'


"GONG XI FA CHAI
MAN XI YU YI
SAN TAI  KING HONG
DAI GA DAI LEI"

they will shout
as they enter the room
the phrases of happiness
and prosperity

cheery faces
loud voices
anything to stop
the demons inside

early mornings
waiting for relatives
to sit and eat
grandma's breakfast

'zhai' with rice
on the very first day
and porridge with
'lo bak gou' the very next day

reunion dinners
interesting stories
positive enthusiasm
and blessed happiness.

chinese new year
isn't about the money
or the entire year ahead
that would be filled with luck

i finally realized
it is about
being all together
in a crowded room
just for one day.

Do not run.
You know not of the
speed that I have within me.
Thinking that you
are helping; saying that
this is for me.
But in reality, this is turning me into
a punctured balloon;
Deflating me slowly.
But even thus, a punctured balloon moves quickly while flying
through the air.
Chasing you with all the wind
it has left inside of it.
And if I fail to chase you
I will suffer, as
the ***** inside of me that symbolises love and life, will
end up as nothing more than just a
deflated balloon; deflated of the love
that it once had.

It's been a while,
so off-the-cuff
with my sweet remarks
for the coffee rings
on the mantelpiece-
how it symbolises
entropy;
the debris of living entities,
the **** at the bottom of everything.

In reality I'm too lazy to clean,
too obsessed
with my lack of legacy
to notice the dust
that collects from old memories;
skin particles from parties long-gone,
all those fast friends
in the mirror,
sharing a tenner
across the kitchen floor.

The Drug took hold of me
from where love had left off,
throttling me
with its day-to-day panic
through my most tired routines,
the pillow-talk white-noise,
the anti-substance regime.

And now I'm tired of you,
you who I get high for,
you who brings me
to steady lows,
a subtle submission
only I can witness,
and only I can bleed out.
The Drug took hold of me
because you didn't;

because everyone let go
once I found a job,
once the money came in,
once my clothes weren't torn anymore.
They thought I was reborn.
A sober sunrise,
a cigarette at dawn,
slipping into the shower,
slipping into that
professional smile;
the bright whites
of the working day-
I have learned
to write and to cry
in the tears
of a crocodile.

A man becomes a calamity
without a woman,
or at least a love
that loves in return.
I have grown soft
in my bleak recovery,
waiting in the trash
of my poetic failures,
no longer looking
for those angry words,
no longer hoping to see
the city come to burn.

Life is so miserable that we often feel as though the sun rising and setting each day symbolises our birth and death for the day.

Yes, it's February's third day
Yes, it's your birthday
The day when you were born
The day when you are adorn
The day that brought you to me
The day that lit up my face with glee
I thank this day with hope's ray
Because its February's third day
And , its your happy birthday

The month is as unique as you
The month has beauty as you do
The month generally ends on 28th day
The month symbolises love , happiness and gay
Yes , its February's third day
Yes , its your birthday

Hope , you are smiling like the day forever,
Hope , I see no tears in your eyes ever.
Thank you for being with me from heart's core,
In the ocean full of water you are my only shore
I wish you on this beautiful day
With all love , happiness without any dismay
Because , its February's' third day
And yes , its your very happy Birthday

Its soft to touch
Lightest of brushes; a feather
It sweet and light
An alluring scent
It's passionate sin
The color of flames
It symbolises love
It’s a red rose
On a first date

Grayson


His a Earth stone in an unusual way. His mind works like a reverse clock.
His ability to love women it shows without saying, Every look he gives its serious and every smile he expresses its telling you that you can trust him.

His a cannonball in bed and his filthy rich. His rich charms are to die for, Every man should take after Grayson.
He has his own company what he built from a deep creek lifestyle. He fossils with his thoughts whilst sipping on his Hennessy on a lonely weekend, while attending an important meeting he knows how to play the part.
He postures around in a granite grey suit, his **** smart business outlook on him shows strength.

Super Talent with his expertise with everything he does. No one can fault him. He sails round to get rid of the stress.
Privacy is like a closed book he won't open it to anyone.
His down to earth with a dim grey twist to him. He likes being alone it comforts his mind.
Doing spiritual meditations helps him step deep into a pearl river. His got a calm personality which everyone fears.
He anchors his anger with a fierce force so he don't challenge himself.

He's very social with everyone he meets. His firm conversions enhance making friends so quickly.

He never lets his friends down his always on their side whatever they need, he would shadow them forever.
Although his rich he doesn't lead the rich lifestyle.

His charcoal past dusted his dreams away from him, no one wanted him to be successful (becoming his own Bussiness man).

Grayson is a thin smoke from the ashes of steel. He's untouchable.
He irons out his selfishness with people who doesn't like him, Well matured to know when someone is playing him.

He doesn't need to touch women to ****** them. He seduces them by saying his name and by showing them his body. Which he knows that women are going to pebble back to his ****** passion.

His body would cloud out you're memory and once felt it there's no choice but to feel it again.
Physically fit with masculine man features it can be hypnotising without going near his body. His body could be everyone's mouth topic.

His Graystone heart fills every part of him. His a daring character. Some might say his dangerously insane.
He symbolises his culture by expressing his beliefs. Powerful structure of Grayson.

I'm saying this Guy would forever change your life.
Yours surely would change.
Grayson

For most of my adult life thus far, I have pictured myself as someone strong, independent and devoid of fear. I never wanted, and still don’t want anyone to do me any favours, to treat me like I am someone in need of help and I certainly never wanted anybody to do so something for me. In short, I never wanted to owe anybody.

I imagine the construction that I have been hiding the truth behind to look like a rollercoaster structure. Elaborate, winding and twisting, thick metal. Those tracks of lies, the illusions I have been building and building into an elaborate structure that obstructs the view to the deeply hidden truth, they are slowly starting to show wear and tear. In reality, I am not the strongest person. I am not weak, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have made it this far without being strong. But I have been lying to myself.

Ever since, I can remember, my sister and my mother have called me sensitive. Sometimes, it was a mean spirited accusation, thrown at me in a vulnerable moment. But most of the time, they where simple observations.
I used to not take those words lightly. I internalised all of the things the people around me used to say about my mental strength and I would carry them in my heart, believe them, and eventually contort them in a way that made them out to be an abomination, a shameful weakness to be rectified. I let my twisted perception of what the word 'sensitive' symbolises lead me into believing that it was a flaw that needed to be hidden like an ugly wound, covered by layers and layers of lies.

Strength, however is not so easily gained. It takes time, openness, honesty and at the end of the day, acceptance, to be truly strong and independent. I might think myself to have mastered all of these things, and truth be told, I am very good at pretending like I have, but I know deep down that I haven’t. I just tell myself that I have.  

Instead, I decided to ignore the dark pictures behind my elaborate construction. It isn’t incredibly difficult or exhausting to ignore, to feign innocence. In fact, it’s way too easy.
I won’t lie to you,  I have lied a little there, it is exhausting to pretend. Especially, when you get disappointed so badly that the sadness swallows you whole. The sadness is drowning, because I know that I can’t show it, I can’t seem affected. I would be calling my own bluff that way, which is a humiliation I would rather not bear.

So what is the problem?
Loneliness. Every day, on my way out of the house I walk by my old neighbour. He sits in that living room, day in and day out. Staring either at his wall or out the window. In the 8 months that I have lived there, I have not seen anybody visiting him. Nobody checks up on him. None of the neighbours stop by to chat. And he is bitter for it. He may not realise it himself, having delusioned himself into thinking that everybody around him is the problem, but he is filled with the deepest sadness that I could imagine anybody to be filled with. Grief is nothing compared to it. Grief shows us that we can love so deeply that we will never forget that love. It is a beautiful thing. But loneliness is the single most darkest feeling that I can think of.

I see myself in that old, wrinkled man who always seems to be scowling. I see my present, but even more horrifyingly, I see my future. What if I will never learn to tear down my web of iron? What if I will never find a way to confront the dark images that hide behind it? There are times where I don't want to do that anyways. After all, I seem to be a functioning human being, capable of living in society.
Other times, times that occur rarer and rarer, I ask myself for how long I will keep up with this. I ask myself if I have reached a breaking point where I want the images to take over my speech and reveal themselves to the world.
I guess, what I am saying is that I am waiting. I am waiting for the moment where I will either have to speak up, or stay silent forever.