Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So Jim, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul armed to the teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives staying alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on a horse with no name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from 1967 to 2016 and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam

only in england, where so few philosophical
works are actually read,
it's apparently enough to cite Locke,
the famous island isolation -
after watching a program on bipolar disorders /
manic depression and what not
started watching a rekindling of
the premier league from the years 2002 / 3...
with the years' music in the background -
great memories Wayne Rooney was still
at Everton, and David ****** had a moustache
and a ponytail standing in goal at Arsenal,
Ole "babyface" Solskjær was playing at
Manchester United - the white stripes came out
teasing a breakthrough just before
their elephant album - well, that's that,
but this programme about the manics -
you'd think that england was really accommodating
to eccentrics as once Vladimir expressed -
he's half-informed, 'hey Vlad... you have half
the picture, honest to god...'
but i want to deviate from any sort of scrutiny
on the subject - the "sane" people think
doctors are holy - what's with this notion that
some surgeons don't leave surgical equipment
in bodies, and that misdiagnosis doesn't happen?
well... so much for deviation:
does it begin with questioning your thinking
rather than questioning existence?
half-baked activists - no "change the world"
prompt? i guess you could say that -
no qualification credentials and you're just
a street-cleaner, apparently - a street-cleaner
in the sense of shuffling tripping up on
banana skins (chris rea - god's great banana skin -
https://goo.gl/3JYJYV - great song) or waltzing
on autumn leaves - suddenly there's a new
zoology department at the London zoo -
changed sphynxes on two legs rattling piggies
of savings they never made other than what they
picked up from the street - besides that -
well, you can resort to the Koran -
or at least i find a way to mediate it - back to
descartes: an example of good through doubt,
meaning i'm a quasi-believer, but not, as sartre
would claim: an unbeliever - since doubt equates
itself with good faith, sartre's doctrine teaches
bad faith... and if the opposite of bad is good,
then the opposite of doubt is denial (the un- prefix
summary when coupled to belief);
so this one manic depressive was describing
a moment of solipsism in terms of annie lennox
singing to him - well, she was, the man just
experienced a moment of solipsism, a thought
experiment in subconsciously, and he simply didn't
realise it - like i told you - so few works of
philosophy are read in england, most of these books
try to follow the route nietzsche attempted:
to write very little when others wrote a great deal...
and then what? sit on a poet's laurels and ****
and smile that all too deceptive smile of some sort
of accomplishment? that'll hardly work -
imagine thirst, and hunger, and put that into writing -
and here we have the telegraphic technique -
as suggested by the author of slaughterhouse 5 -
m. kurt vonnegut - well obviously you will not find
any comparisons - but then at Yale the professor of
"creative" writing or whatever they call it
just cited the first line of the first canto - so i ask you:
why would you want to write something as if
it's an instruction manual for a television set?
oddly enough too, the Florence school of art technique
wasn't passed on - while Albrecht Dürer kept his
a secret, unto himself - lucky man, a sad man,
but a lucky man - i actually like his selfishness.
no, they don't read philosophy in england,
and i can testify with the usual saying they have:
'he's lost touch with reality', what the hell is that?
no, i don't have the stamina for any secret society
crap - i get the comedy of life,
a comfortable positioning on the ****** laze -
limit all of life's temptations and live out
a slightly impoverished life - premonition i'd say
now, had enough money back when i was making
investments in a music & book library -
now i'm full - now my turn to give -
oh look: a bunch of gnat memory readers
easily distracted by traffic lights - we've all been
there - two years and a few books in between
it took me to read Heidegger's being and time -
TWO YEARS! and how much came in between?
sunset upon glee of the sea - Ezra's
broken token to the conjunctions
        and
                and
                        and and and and
i don't mind - man lived to be poetry's prefect of
the 20th century - see, a whole group of them, not a solitary
macaroon fetishist that Proust was -
and moby **** will have his days counted,
but not by me - there's no point being a Samson
keeping all the pillars - actually, that's the point,
to be Samson, take a few literary pillars
and then the whole **** temple collapses -
so with two or three of them taken by you
the rest you leave a rubble - turning over to the leisure
of poetry - Vladimir, haven't you heard?
people in england think all poetry is depressing,
depressing? 'what's normal?' is another maxim
in england - singing on the train is forbidden, also -
hey, social criticism is better than running around
with a kalashnikov - turn words into bullets
and mown the strata - and mown the strata -
                 and mown the strata -
give up on preplanned expeditions - only gymnasts
and tightrope walkers do pre-planning -
patience and constant innovative practice - ****'s jazz,
there was no classical composer in their midst with
a silencer of the music, music scores -
how they crammed an entire orchestra in those
little heads of theirs, i'll never know -
so this manic depressive man cited solipsism without
knowing it, and it made him very, very uncomfortable...
i wouldn't have sent him to a psychiatrist,
i wouldn't even want to go to one voluntarily -
i'd have sent him to the library -
but oh, oh, more and more libraries are closing -
while the zenith in my local library was
Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus - everything else
was toilet paper.

474

They put Us far apart—
As separate as Sea
And Her unsown Peninsula—
We signified “These see”—

They took away our Eyes—
They thwarted Us with Guns—
“I see Thee” each responded straight
Through Telegraphic Signs—

With Dungeons—They devised—
But through their thickest skill—
And their opaquest Adamant—
Our Souls saw—just as well—

They summoned Us to die—
With sweet alacrity
We stood upon our stapled feet—
Condemned—but just—to see—

Permission to recant—
Permission to forget—
We turned our backs upon the Sun
For perjury of that—

Not Either—noticed Death—
Of Paradise—aware—
Each other’s Face—was all the Disc
Each other’s setting—saw—

The woodpecker wouldn't reveal,
          the secret kept closer to her chest,
but the telegraphic messages
          meant nothing else I gather it thus:
"Don't you give up midway
           slog, till you are fully satisfied,
that you've reached there
        where, what you are searching is found"

In wooden notes, she proclaimed thus,
          goes on pecking making,
the noise louder and louder,
         it's now more and more clear-
that in standards she'd never compromise,
        never would she lower her esteem
even if her sense of urgency sometimes
              creates some discordant notes
       that she accepts as her fault
and keeps her ears perked up for tone and tenor.

sometimes you reveal a cognitive beehive, telegraphic notations: pleasing errors and a malignant internalisation of what democracy looks like in one man: voiceover canned laughter... i've only heard of two comedies without canned laughter - the royal family and the office... you know when you are permitted to laugh... rather than be fed the easiest way out... attributing a witty comedy with canned laughter devolves it from being a witty comedy... meaning mr. bean (jaś fasola, do re mi ti do) had more wit; because i want to laugh when i want to, not when i'm falsely told to as if i didn't understand the language i used and didn't find the canned laughter jokes utterly appealing to be unanimously convinced that they could take my stomach and put it on a torture rack of giggles.*

you have to turn into a child to decipher the patchwork of lies,
elijah had enough honour in him to have written
absolutely nothing, because he measured it out as:
they’re all trying to imitate moses’ style, and they’re
doing a very bad job at it,
my purely cognitive proof will send shivers down their spines:
and so it was.
the one thing that worries me about the greeks’ work
that’s the new testament, primarily...
the bit where judas becomes a slave dealer elevated from a thief...
so did jesus shave his beard off and cut his hair to roman standard
(short) that he, one of the most famous people at the time in judea
be so unrecognisable as to require judas kissing him?
what’s up with that? i’m sure that walking on water
and feeding five thousand strong with five loaves of bread
and two fish... you would make an indent in the public consciousness
and which would make you easily spotted... even in an age without
selfies and passports to identify you... so what’s up with that?
another thing (apart from the fact that i learned
that bottled beer tastes better than canned beer)
is this bit about elevating men above angels,
with angels in islamic theory being creatures without free will,
i.e. robots... which ensures man slaughters cherishing a day
of reflection (the sabbath), and engages in a 24 / 7 capacity
to trade goods...
the bit where gabriel answers the feminine aspect of translating
woman to man and man to woman... was muhammad a woman?
christianity gave us... for ****’s sake singing eunuchs...
worse still it turned grecian homosexuality into perversity...
choir boys got fingered by a priest... it turned homosexuality
into pedophilic homosexuality...
and you know that interest kant had at the beginning of his career
with the theme of swedenborg or hegel’s with böhme -
it’s tiresome, mysticism is, i mean you get man elevated
above angels / robots turning men into robots...
you get the wings of angels clipped...
you end up with men without testicles (bloodhound gang’s
pink floyd pantomime - all in all, you’re just another **** with
no *****)... then due to the wings being clipped
you get angels attributed the status of saint...
st. michael, e.g., st. raphael...
and you begin to wonder... what if devaluing angels to the status
of saints encouraged the complex schizophrenic dialogue of
mohammad’s revelation to reach into this pocket of logic
and denote him as the angel michael, the warring angel...
given the current implosion of islam into a warring reformation?
obviously it’s ridiculous for the humanist and what not
in attempts to appear cool... and in there in the secular realm
a clear voiceferous voice of conformity with scientific standards
upkept is like a tennins ball against a brick wall...
but philosophy begins in awe and ends in paradox...
you can turn into a clown once in a while and appear to weep
with a smiley face make-up...
the diacritic use in german polish swedish etc.
is a disease in english, with its diacritical nakedness...
it’s a negation of ease for one reason: c u l8tr -
what the hell is that? lol... liquidation of lombards?
very unsettling to say the least...
as much as the french antifix, for example
le alésoir - the affix is apparent because the “hyphen”
over the e  stressor is pointing east...
but an example where the “hyphen” over the e
points west... the thus mentioned e eats everything that
comes after, thus becoming an antifix, e.g. excè(s)
thus the use of diacritic marks also act as syllabled segregation
into compounds of timing pronunciation:
much more than the english expression of tomato
and the american expression of potato;
sub-refernce from the title: gnoch'e - imperfect,
no wonder dyslexia exists...
even though the majority of people are literate,
the pre-existent spelling complications still favour
those who invented them and subsequently allowed
the all-pervading literacy for pawns.

"The heady wine you imbibed
on those nine, insane days
thinking it as love, in fact was
unadulterated pain
with just another name"
pitying our condition
waning lonely moon
kept on saying over and over again
Long fingers of pain,
played a doleful tune
on my heart strings
rocking me to a troubled sleep

her eyes were swollen
with sleep deprivation,
chronic food aversion
made me look like
an emaciated ascetic
in a fast unto death.

Then, quite unplanned
in an enchanted evening
we bumped in to each other
once again, at a place
one would never
expect the other.
a conspiracy of hearts
still secretly beat in resonance,
seeking pain yet again
as if it's the only reward
for the pure devotion to each other?

What can we do then?
On the  bed of hay we rolled together,
washing our blues away,
the most primitive way,
sniffing and licking
biting and tasting
darkness pulled a curtain,
shyly peeped the stars
to see what we are up to
Then-
we gave up all restraint
started frenzied *******,
by her telegraphic winks
a distant star reproached us
"you still haven't learned a thing"

perched
poised
placed upon pillows
and cushions
pushing
probing
penetrating places
internal and eternal

raised
raising
raving so ravenous
and feverish
rendezvous
recollected
remembering rapes
communal and consensual

telegraphic
telepathic
tell-tale tortures
and trials
tender
talismanic
treasured in totality
bitter and beloved

i remember this one quote from "somewhere"...
that...
    the world is divided between men who have
slept with two women at the same time...
and men who have dreamed about sleeping with
two women at the same time...

i hate *******...
         can i brag about having a *******?
it's so ****** unusual...
    i was sort of winging it coming back
from a shift at the London Stadium...
    i didn't want to pay any extra fair to travel
from zone 2/3 of Stratford
  got off at zone 4 Goodmayes...
rather than zone 6 Romford...  

sorry... i'm just still a little disorientated...
i'm sort of... eh?!
that just happened?!
  what's that smell? oh... right...
after she took a shower and then after
i took a shower before she wiped
the ***** off my chest... after...
she sprayed me with her perfumes...

what the **** just happened?!
   no... i really want to know...
it's like my body became split into two...
part of me merman
part of my: doodle-eyed-fish-head...
octopus savvy: h. p. lovecraft monstrosities...

purely telegraphic technique from here -

i walk, two are available,
i don't know why i want to mar this experience
by writing about it: i should bask in it...

i paid £10 entry fee... i was walking around the block
drinking a brandy i just bought...
shadows, night, shadows, night: the full moon...
hmm...
so i enter and immediately ask: can i use the toilet?
i need to take a **** prompt..
so i do...

these two jump on the idea:
no... it's not good enough that i pick between them...
both of the girls want me at the same time...
giggling...
   we go into the room and they bargain me
for £200... for an hour... turns out it was only
half an hour...
i don't know why... i was bothered about
under performing... just finished my shift
i was supposed to go home and drink...
instead?

well... if Khedra texted me back i would
have other ideas:
but it's always a bad idea to make a *******
into a girlfriend... i had to alleviate my
predicament with "better": ulterior options...

i stretched the mark...
eh... now that i have had a taste of it...
it's sort of impossible to go back...
on a "promise"...
i passed a glistening penny of the queen's
nose lying copper naked on the pavement...
picked it up...
breathed into it...
flicked it... if it lands on heads
i ought to be in luck...
it landed on heads...
passed one bewildered cat...

walked back into the brothel with the excess
the two girls were asking for...
1 hour became 30 minutes for the pair of them...
so weird...
it's unlike *******...
i hate *******...

i did encounter mister limp ****: i even told them:
i'm talking to myself... i'm tired...
but they let me smoke a cigarette...
and... hey presto! i was up and running...
enough lubrication and...
a hand-job never felt as good as:
whenever i teased against it...
but it's so different...
when one girl is massaging your testicles
while another is jerking you off..

or... one is ******* you off
while you're... strapped to her... bountiful *****...
keeping a hard-on imagining:
hard... to keep the Oedipal Complex functioning...
when... you're cuddling to one girl
doing the hand-job... the other girl massaging your
testicles... *******...
******* on the *******...
trying to **** yourself into a hard-on
thinking you're ******* at your mother's *******...

oh, but the implosion of voyeurism...
one woman is pleasuring you while the other women
watches on... i really didn't need any lesbian antics...

my first ******* and it has become
apparently complicated...
a bunch of Pakistanis were playing supermarket
cricket in a parking-lot
in the middle of the night...
me? i was taking out extra cash to have
a *******...

    i went limp... smoke a cigarette... a new hard-on...
excess lubrication...
hand-job... no... even i understood what they
said: he likes the simulation...
i did... i do...
       for me... while one of the girls
was jerking me off... squeezing her face into mine...
while i was watching the second girl
teasing my testicles...
   it's this... three-party interaction...

wow...        whatever i write is not going
to be enough...
i've just crossed the threshold of being a man
who might dream about sleeping with two women
simultaneously to a man...
who actually has...
she implored: and i suppose you feel like a king,
now?!
no... i feel... more curious...

i have to admit... sleeping with two women at the same
time... i hate *******...
it's so staged... reality is so... dislodged from...
like any aspect of drama: there's no script regarding
reality...
         one girl was ******* me off
while another girl provided me with her ******* and *******
and i was reimagining myself
as a toddler ******* on my mother's ******* for
a hard-on...

       is an Oedipal Complex real when
you share two women in the same act?!
         just asking... half of me was being ******...
half of my was *******...
i ended up getting the best hand-job the world
is yet to: not see...
          i was clinging to the neck and cheeks of the one
jerking me off while the one stroking my *******
i was looking into to find elements
of jealousy...

imploded voyeurism...
how they joked... how i loved laughing at myself...
truly, magnificently, weird...
being naked in the presence of two naked women...
i think i've just passed the threshold of
what's to be "expected"...
since she started spraying me with her perfume...
but at least one of them knew
that she was the lesser of the two...

two women... at the same time...
     wow: what: wow... seems kind of pointless
to have read Madame Bovary...

two women at the same time with me...
well... i wasn't going to be left out...
          if everyone is seemingly wandering with a bogus
focus for egocentric exfoliation...
i'd leave the brothel and talk to a Jonathan...
we talked about women... drank the remains
of my brandy... he was trying to become freed from
these two girls who were trying to get to Thurrock...
from Goodmayes?!
ha ha... sure... one **** after another: taxi!

i needed this to create my antithesis of
having watched *******...
i needed... to have one girl ******* me...
while another girl watched...
    i think i needed this... like a liver-transplant...
to hell with *******...
i was going limp from tiredness before
i took a drag of a cigarette and she lubricated her hand
and... hey presto... one was imitating a ******
with her hand...
the other was squeezing my *******: ripe plums?!
while the one doing the former was squeezing her face
into mine and the other doing the plum-checks was
scrutinizing being the "less-involved"...

threesomes... mighty weird...
well... at least i have that covered...
    thank god both of them were willing to do so...
and no...
there's no Shakespeare abounding on this type
of topic...
                 how does one put it? "one"?
you've just been shared between two women...

i abhor *******: like i abhor movies...
that abhorrent script... expectation wise...
i was hoping for an hour with one girl...
what did i get? i got two...
                       voyeurism completely avoided:
it ******* imploded...
one's jerking you off while clinging to you...
another is helpless looking on...
eye-contact... massaging your testicles...
you end up merging the one doing the former
with the latter vacating her ***** for a make-shift
******...

               dear god: oh no... nothing human is alien
to us... the gods can... sort of... disappear...
it would almost be a taboo to walk a dog on a leash
with a muzzle...
it truly would: after a *******...
1x man + 2x women...
                     you don't come back
the sort of man your father is
after a *******...
                 the thirst changes...
prior it was a thirst for: water...
now? now i thirst for watermelons...
                         and the more the grandiosity
of her cleavage...
                      i must have these periodic bouts
of madness when consecrating either thought
or body on the altar of a woman.

compared to the circumcised
i'm a docile creature...
so many circumcised jihadis,
i almost forget there's
a snippet of them missing...
     the bit where you *******
without complaint
         and the part where
third parties, sort of:
       do away with mirroring
scalping...
   so much for Jesus'
                     stomping on
gentile hands prior to
                     marketing the sign
of the cross...
       this little piggy arithmetic
among lepers...
     and a loose tooth smile...
plop...
          the sound made with
gangrene gums into
the porcelain basin of a chinese
toilet, affair...
    my my, the punctuation
dynamism, further explored,
as if: synonym of stuttering...
     why is it though,
rolling sweet tobacco,
   i have the scent of freahly
scratched cucumbers on
my tips and between
fingernail trenches?
        late spring and rolling
tobacco infuriates me with
a perfume of cucumbers...
what's missing is
white vinegar, a pinch of
sugar, salt, pepper,
Charlotte's odour,
           and sour cream...
         2 months in a city worth
60,000 souls...
           reentering the behemoth
of London and what's
"london" within the M25 criterium
and...
         ****! gone...
                  a drop in the water...
fame and the unflinching
status quo of the numbers...
      fame as: a necessary invested
in P.R. motif...
      and the french, generally eat
letters,
    rigid slavic syllables blocked
my learning of the ***** ******...
  bouquet...
    bucket...
        or, rather: boo-kay...
                    french cannibalise
and no ******* omelette will
serve me an alternative op.
      to not, masquarade the said
acronym to a shift...
               and to mind:
americans and their acronym
exclusions...
     stemming from u.s.a.,
        off a missing of...
   elsewhere the "acronyms"
or, more pignant the resorting
to "chance"
                 p.s. ref.
    points, acronymised:
             (cognitive crossword,
imitating free reign search:
  all algorithm is ronin,
bouncy maxim, just shy
of aphorism...)
                   a memorable nostalgia...
shy of joy...
          not antidote... no...
not the antithesis of...
    ah!
                anecdote!
    what was i thinking of prior?
        tailing off into a cul de sac
and harvesting
the impermament scoff
that is time... given the source
of: hardly a subjective
     "deviation" of a timeless
normative...
                mortality...
sacrificial lamb adrift on
the altar of morality...
                 now i know why i write
poetry...
           i can hardly settle
for solving crosswords...
              cucumber perfume
having rolled tobacco?
            imitating alzheimer's
     in telegraphic broken-
            language?
         lost the patience
to paint... took a photograph?
    and so:
    because the fundamental
antithesis of painting,
that is photography,
                is to make foundation,
in verbiose presentation...
    the opportune moment
was itself-revealing,
           somehow,
accommodating a "self"
          make a frozen puncture of...
photography per se, yes...
  but with all the verbiose
attachments to be: excused...
         hardly necessary...
           because what came from
the frustration of
painters, anti-photography...
if not: splashing paint on
a canvas?
   jackson ******* was
a photographer...
                     not a painter...
albeit,
    in a more lower reminder
of form of the observable
spectrum...
          a photograph worth
a painting but worth
more a thought,
   than what the crude eye
would deem digestably
orthodox, with
comparison.

i can't exactly call myself a recovering alcoholic,
that would be too obvious,
too: well boxed...

                                 a recovery...
an alcoholism, what would that be?
would it look like something from
the movie la mécanique de l'ombre?

it could look like something of the sort,
at least: the less spicy parts of
the plot...

       what is missing is the pangs of
conscience, what remains?
       silly thinking: and apparently...
too many hours in a day.

a recovery...
              i've encountered these periods
of "recovery"
  before...
                   spending a month caring
for old people (family, sure,
but sometimes strangers would be
better)...

                      i'm still scattered brained
when it comes to writing
dialogue:
     short-attention span on my behalf?
count me as a monk
in a monestary of a novel if
you get a chance:

    i fooled myself in thinking that
i'd be able to appreciate a Dickensian
novel...

                - becauase there is always
something to add
- a persistent juxtaposition
of the narrative...

    - hence this; imitation of
telegraphic bro - k - en
      li- / -ne- / -s... <dash dash>...

the 13th rule for life:
to counter the 12th -
pet a cat when you encounter
one on the street...

ha!
             and does the doctor
think that's that easy?
     not all cats will want to be petted...
yes... it's possible...
but not all cats want to be petted...
unless the cat is very naive...
paradox:
    those posters on lamp-posts...
now: a missing dog?
  i can understand a missing
dog...
    but what cat can ever become:
"lost"?

             13th rule for life:
wear pajamas...
    to bed...

                          revolutionary....
for over 3 years i slept
****-naked...
   i woke up and...
i always missed the lazy-slot...
the lounge existentialist
hour or so...
with a coffee and a cigarette...

13th rule for life...
    wear pajamas to bed...

(i don't know... some people might
think to wear pajamas to
the shop...
          a very prominent pasttime
for english women
jumping to the shops
wearing onesies...)

that is: you can wake up
and take a snooze session from
bed and make it stand-up...
sleeping ****-naked?
you have to dress in day clothes...
and that's...
simply shocking...

          a recovering alcoholic...
it's not like going to an a.a.
meeting would do me any good...
group therapy is not for me:
taming my farcical ego
   requires me: working against
some third person puppeteering...

spot what?
   if i'll start drinking i'll be back
to base one, something equivalent
to today...
   i don't remember drinking
and throwing tantrums...
    i do remember being under
the delusion of:
   the general grandiosity of
writing anything under an influence...
which probably began
with reading some of
Bukowski's manuscripts...
  the pedant in me opened up:

  immaculate writing -
  typographic...
               i.e. very few typos:
if any...
  but sure...
                 i'll use the term: "recovering"...
what scares me now is:
there are so many hours in
a day, and there are so many times
you must turn in bed,
scratch yourself,
   get up and drink some water...
wrestle with yourself...
when it came to going to sleep
it came as easy as throwing
a sack of potatoes off
   a roof, or asking to sparr with
a prof. boxer:
                       one-hit knock-outs...

- mind you: the scent of the room
in the morning is less brewery and more...
warm...
   it's less choking...

now... about the weight-gain...
****... that's going to be a problem...
even i have to admit:
   2 meals during the day
can't exactly be 2000 calories...
but... having looked at the empty bottle
of whiskey...

   55kcal in 25ml of whiskey...
     so that's...
    55 x 4 = 200kcal x 10 = 2000kcal
per night, per bottle,
for roughly 3 years... **** me!

and what sort of kcal are we talking
about? well... sure as ****
it's not protein, it's not fat...
    carbohydrates?
   how do you burn off 2000kcal
                  of alcohol? buy a diesel hybrid?

group think in alcoholics anonymous:
concentrated with feelings
of shame...
                       i don't know,
         i'm guessing that's the scenario...

sure: sobering up
and i'll have to the reality of:
'you really did write some
mundane verses...
   no, they weren't that great...
   any drunk could think they were
great...
remember those pangs of
       fear when you woke up
the next afternoon after an all-night
session?
   yeah... that's called:
  a moral hangover: stemming from
a delusion of grandiosity...'

i don't do shame:
         self-critique is much better...
nonetheless:

there are so, so, so many hours in a day!
there are too many!
   what do people do with all
these hours?!
      i'm going to grow crazy just thinking:
was that hour wasted,
wasn't it?

/
              and in terms of finding
a "proper" job other than pursuing
   this... "hobby" of having scribbled for
the past 3 years...
  
   well... i like walking...
oh... right... the profession of being
a postman is about to fizzle out...
street-cleaner?
    they don't exactly advertise that
job for the "respectable" people:
not in a job-search-engine-website...
    i the odd occassion,
sure, i looked at these websites... /

 /     yeah: as many options out there
as there are hairs on my head...
hell... some people just stream themselves
playing video games...
what's a "proper" job what
isn't a "proper" job...
   just prior to the great technological
update...
             but i'm jumping ahead
of myself... /

  /                                    laboratory work...
well... that's a start...
sober thinking and no...
   crippling desperation and:
                        thinking oneself limbless... /

/ so i had to go and suss things out:
    the whole job market
on a level of the street...

      last time i heard: poetry is not exactly
an endeavor worthy of a competitive
streak of: employee of the month...

   and, mind you: always the spare parts,
missing nuts and bolts,
screws and sharpened hammers...

mantras like: self-worth and...
   a profession makes a man...
   yes: if he's good at it:
   no one exactly needs a ****** plumber
inspecting a burst pipe...
   unless: he be looking for
             a loch ness sized puddle... /

and no, it's not from a demaning
perspective:
   when i was a child i wanted to be
a bus driver at first...
                     so... something against
an administrator of a medical building
at the reception?
    no... nothing against that...

    a street-cleaner?
                     why would i have a problem
with that?
   so... why the hell is poetry such
                  a baggage of: inadequacies?
i'm no dog:
but i feel it like a collar
   with inverted spikes around my neck...

- but yes: some people do over-compensate
their job with an over-bearing balance
of self-worth...
                              didn't i sometime ago
(in this verse), not mentioned my own
claims of over-bloated grandeour?

          can't win...
                      either the egoistic route or...
the depressed: crushed by the mass
route...
                            or: some vague middle... /

my... any more of these sober afternoons
and i actually might do something
spectacular...
                           at the moment...
          one month, sober...
                a hiccup interlude...
a complete brain-drain of a day or two
returning to the same pattern of
                         getting ****-faced at night...
and then, now:                                            /

very much akin to no. 9
from cinema calendar of the abstract
heart (tristan tzara)...

              i.e. 'but the dance of round
tables shuts in the shock
                of the marble shudder

   new sober'.
                                                                     /

i wasn't going to make use of these
idle fingers, while returning to the old ways:
and the old ways are...
hardly a maturing tenure of:
never in my previous engagements
a worthwhile sober observation...
   but: as of today:

a sober observation -
i never thought i'd say this,
but on a double decker bus...
  listening to queen's of the stone age
album rated r...
         this sober "thing"?
it's not too bad...

                                           it's...
refreshing...
                           it's... well: there i was
thinking it would be mind-numbing...
                                                                             /

walked up to the bank machine
to check the balance...
                     well... isn't that something?
who would have thought...

   if having bought a gramaphone
and kind of blue vinyl is to "save me"...
might as well promise myself:
    hell, here's to my variety of AA...
using vinyls...
                        i need some sort of outlet...
conversations wouldn't have
solved the problem...

                               wooden shjips: V... /

well... better think i write unspectacular
verse: sober...
than think i write spectacular
verse: drunk...

                           there's nothing else to it...
- but there's something else to mind...
- Dickens...

            Dickens didn't write anything
spectacular: hear me out...
                       i mean like Beckett "spectacular"?
yes, like pretentious,
    difficult literature: to read...
                   but he did write with
a relish for a reader's sense of comfort...
   maybe that's possibly worth
                     imitating?

                                                                  /

/a view ascance: side notes of -
          how efficiency is lost
within the confines of prescribing a
burdensome effectiveness;
            like:
                being constapitated
in an elevator:
               and being claustrophobic.../

/alternatively: a hypothetical conveyor
belt...
                 archaic notice
  in the form of: arbeit macht frei...
                                    althought with
less sadistic irony of the SS
   completed upon finishing
harold norse's
  a memoir of a ******* angel:

seems that what one deems one's
own "poetry" is exactly that: "poetry"...
   and what becomes poetry
is equivalent to: giving a generous
portion of one's **** to a publisher:
in the literal sense...
    
                             but hell...
if Dada can see print...
                         oh... out of the blue:
for no other purpose other than
                a count of syllables,
                     from the count of words,
from the count of sentences,
from the count of punctuation marks
   (inter-syllables),
    and then back into:
   the count of vowels through
to the count of consonants...

                 to arrive at some meaningful:
v:c ratio... /

                             by god:
new sober is indeed spewing your mind
like placing imaginary accounts
of the number of matchsticks per tree:
in the rough estimate,
                             akin to:

brain damaged:
                       Σ: the involuntary compact
for the understudy of man...
      less: anima / soul
           and more: vox / voice -
  as ever: partially brain damanged...
yet still perusing the body and,
yes, the total (sum) -
                       where thought originates
and: with the duly departed /

                         x/σ (the algebra fraction of
a sore thumb of the sum of man)
                                                                         /
   y/σ (the algebra fraction
of a missing finger of the sum of man) / / / / /

it appears i can do much
more havoc being sober, than being drunk...
from this:
     what was once blanc is
    but an acne riddled crease in the fabric of:
till the next blanc becomes
more than such a creased indentation:
and more...
                 akin to the fields surrounding
Ypre - at that certain moment in whatever
time...

                           just let me absolve myself
from citing stereotypes.

.something akin to... a reminiscence of the opening scene of vanilla sky... i can't imagine the amount of effort and co-ordination it took... back then... to completely empty time sq. well... now i sort-of can... of note: for every # there should have been a chinese "character" in its place... i can't seem to inject them... but they are available at allpoetry (//bit.ly/3bopkJr) and deepundergroundpoetry (//bit.ly/2ywqzaS)... however tedious, this pickles (me, nontheless)...

pettitoes... when dickens isn't being a samvel veller...
         tatties: neeps 'n' 'aggis...
pettitoes: petite toes...
   bicameral mind - manhattan -
a man in a hat... (julian jaynes)
      yes.... but a little detail: not invoked:
a man with a tan wearing a hat...

otherwise... it would be most respectable to call:
ginger: the root...
             but... the keratin colour
of... the nails that become hair...
well:
              ginja... ninja...
                   digging trenches and
pig troughs of mass graves for... the... "laughter"?

       ginj'ah ninj'ahs...
             ***** hair... worn best
on the face of a man as...
                well... bypassing the whole
affair of ******* and presenting
                                                   the sinless adam...

needless to say: "once upon a time"...
victorian english... the "H" was yet to be a surd...
       one would find: ha'    instead
of             'ad...
              for the term: had aye: yes:
punctured weaving cruxes
with an i, i would have... 'ave...
   if that wasn't too straining to begin with
                         concerning the roman salute...

then again... 'ave i any concerns for:
áve or avé?!

the mountain (#) and the Ш (shuckles) or... Щ
                             (sh'   'itty          cheese)...
       this prime logogram...
the skeleton of mandarin...
                         or perhaps: hardly...
then the 2nd tier...
the ideograms and the "abstract"...
i guess # is very much "up"...
             as # is very much "down"...
as is... copernican north and a copernican south...
yep... up there on the moon...
what is the heliocentric "north"?

         funny... though...
                   didn't Tyr leave a simpler "abstract"
of "up" with the rune letter:           ᛏ           ?
   otherwise being pulled apart:
                           ᛨ:   up (ᛉ) and down (ᛦ)
   huh?! what's this doing 'ere (ɻ)?
                and of course... the much more crude
variation of pst! Ψ: poseidon was 'ere too!

does this look like anything concerning knives?
                      #?
now i'd ask... drop an adjective:
                       blunt into the whole
affair...     because? well... # is but a blade...
   if i were to find a difference between
a     sharp #          and a blunt #...
               (# = knife) i'd be all the happier!

this is a person: #... well...
     this # is a mountain?
       how rare are... lonely mountains...
   akin to fuji?
                         i see a mountain i see a volvano...
yes... last time i checked: a lonely mountain
is a volcano... mountain tend to huddle...
volcanos stand alone...
             so... is # a mountain?
and # is a tree?
          i find the abstraction at fault...
this is a forest of pines: |||||||||||
                                             ||||||||
                                            |||||||||| at length
even birches... but isn't a tree as simple
as Y? or how that's also the tongue of
a serpent?          oh, to be sure...
                               #... rest... leaning against a tree?
                   how's                  /Y?
                               what a funky lookin' tree
the chinese have abstracted... #: i'm guessing it's
a bonsai... which would make leaning against
it... almost impossible!
   of the crux of the matter:
            isn't the greek and latin version of tree: Y
bare more similarity than the chinese "abstract" #?

yes oh yes: geniuses of the orient...
          squint hard and lon enough
you'll bound to see... the sort of punishment
they devised for dunces...
counting 100 grains of uncooked rice using
chop-sticks from one pile into another!
   to build a wall to encompass the reiteration
of a mountain range...
because when Hannibal crossed the alps...
no elephants fell off the crevices of the trial...
Xerxes also whipped the sea:
which i'll take quiet literally...
      because that thing was common...
to not associate a bridge with... instead...
      Nebuchadnezzar...
cuckoo worship of persian leaders...

     H was actually devised to be employed
as a rugby post / goal...
          yep... all along it was hatched as a plan
for the game of rugby...
never to be a surd...
of the abstract of a clown juggling
while riding a unicycle -
  because H was never about the juggling
of vowels when expressing...
that very base origin of:
how the vowels needed a letter to attach
themselves when one should
               be better laugh... ah ha ha ha...

continued - with great volubility -
alt: with vehemence...
but no... pluck a feather...
   indeed... a crow's feather landing in
my garden... an omen like any other...

   this is (#)  both a nose and a self...
      and thank the dog's ******* and monkey chins
that it more or less implies the latter more...
perhaps... self... no: not combinatoriality...
a self is like a set of drawers... a cupboard...
conveniently... segregated into rows...
socks tier 1, t-shirts tier 2...
        
and as ever... looking for a word...
a googlewhack: compentralized
                     (tinyurlcom/y8dc7ckl)...
assorted... fitting the designated volume
of space...

hell... what good is an algorithm search engine...
when one really rather desires
the alphabetic route... and looking through
the list of the prefix comp-
                                         ?    ?
                                         ?    ?

eh! easy! compare... comparison...
    compartment!

             com-par-tmen-talize!
com-part-mental!
  this word would do better with a german tweak...
to escape the ******* and vagabon father
  (z and s respectively)... i.e. compartmentaliße!

sometimes the mind does wander...
better for me: i always found crossword puzzles
more entertaining as a double-act...
than any gratifying escape into solipsistic adventures...
of the: horizons of the self-assured reason...
whether pure... impure or...

           tancticum: philosophia polingano ad normam
               burgundicae
                             Eusebius Amort (1730 a.d.)
          tinyurlcom/yakfgo62 - close... googlewhack...

was this rushed? i don't think so...
too many juxtapositioning to arrange...
perhaps this should have the alt. title of:
   a phonetic assault on the "middle kingdom"?
would one call the telegraph - rushed?
  i'd be most likely to forgive myself
by conjuring up the adjective: telegraphic to suit
this... congestion.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                 No One Keeps a Diary Anymore


                  Which is better — to be ruled by one tyrant three
                  thousand miles away or by three thousand tyrants one
                  mile away?

                                                  – Mather Byles


No one keeps a diary – life is safer that way
Men have been hanged for what they have written
It may be that they revealed some forgotten crime
Or worse, that they possessed the gift of thought

No one keeps a diary – life is safer that way
The Moms for Liberty are scared of books
Even the diary of a little girl
Because children must not read or write or think

No one keeps a diary – life is safer that way -
And have you self-purged your own books today?


South Carolina school district reviews, returns books after ban attempt (msn.com)

The first Mom For Liberty to successfully ban Anne Frank went on an antisemitic livestream - Jewish Telegraphic Agency (jta.org)

Formed his own style
Fighting and for living
Philosophy through seeking
Answers expressed through feeling

A great Philosopher
Who said be water
Using no way as way
Having no limitation as limitation
The slogan from his self exploration

Greatest Martial Artist
Of all time
Founded Jeet kune do
Never lost a fight
In exhibitions showed his might
The One inch punch
An example of his uniqueness
Could close your eyelids for you
Non telegraphic movements help him do

Bridge between various cultures
East and West both he nurtured
Oneness of human beings
Was the core of his teaching

Made Martial Arts global
Single handedly due to his mettle
Spread it far and wide
In it took a lot of pride

Many roles he played
Integrity in all displayed
Nothing ever half baked
In every aspect carved his name

Acted in movies
As a newborn till his late teens
Twenty films in 2 decades
The  camera loved his face
A child artist before evolving into a martial artist

Was a celebrated dancer
Cha cha dancing Champion
Of Hongkong in 1957
Showcased his phenomenon

Statues across continents
As a sign of peace and contentment
All cultures embrace him
For he was simply him

Learnt from the Grandmaster
Who thought him everything he had to offer
Went with an empty cup
Filled it up with all he could


Ip man his teacher
Wing Chun practitioner
5 years his tutor
The Master's Master

Worlds fittest man
Another jewel on his crown
Worlds quickest man
No more place in his crown

Shined as a lead actor
Was also a fine script writer
Trendsetting fight choreographed
Sensible Movie Producer
And performed duties as a director

Died at age 32
Completed all that he was sent to do
Led life as an example
His life was his message

Many facets in a person
A very rare occurrence
Defenitely the chosen
Cannot measure his contribution

100 most influential
People of the century
Time Magazine's list
He naturally fit

An inspiration to many
Worshipped by as many
Day to day life made easy
If you follow his philosophy

Enduringly popular people
Includes gods and religious heads
Finds a place besides
In every heart he resides

.                      Station

second hand

platform clock

semaphores

for the deaf

                     even

evening

Eve

awaits

awake

                    trains

of­ thought

express

                   telegraphic

tracks

transmit

in morse

                   sound

sleepers

disturbed

                 all change

tapping

junction

                  insomnia

next

stop­

                   gap

the

mind





04:38 am
11/04/2022