i still managed to catch a whiff of britpop...
i was going to st. augustine's
and all the boys were all about the oasis
look... so ben sherman shirts...
never tucked into the trousers...
but this was in the 1990s...
of course the celebrations were short-lived...
sooner or later a prog variation of brit-pop
had to come about with radiohead...
i kind of skimmed over the early stuff...
there, there - from hail to the thief is my stand-out
track...
having just watched a movie about
the iceman... a one ryszard kuklinski -
well... if the icecream truck:
mongrel dutch-irish and this one ******
would never make into the guinea club...
or the elder fathers of zion...
guinea? seems i was misinformed...
rome's best wops... or donatello goombah...
i'm having trouble with all these
anglo-saxons slurs...
back in dandy ol' england...
it's not a great period piece:
happening right now...
to be in the protected class of citizentry:
no mosque... oh hell:
protected status with a falafel?
exactly... where's the falafel?
but from the movie... wow...
it is: but it isn't... a racial slar...
the one word from skiing these oomp'ah-
loomp'ahs *** 'ight...
and in mewwy ol' england i come across
the natives... almost for a second time...
not the same sort of natives
i met prior to my 1997 / 1998 interlude...
perhaps 7/7 happened?
i really don't know...
but no great cultural export...
no oasis was sang on the continent
after oasis songs were sung...
it's not like kasabian made it into that
transcendental meaning on offer...
hey! variations: pollack!
paul-lack! st. paul's lacking? what?
a head... in athens... ah ha... dry martini of
a joke...
but who am i?
profession? pole / paul...
******* in my spare time, jackson jr.,
because... it's hardly a slur...
it would be a slur if i were called
a *** or a goombah...
the anglo-saxons wouldn't exactly
the rooted natives...
but they would...
it's as if expected:
from speaking latin and the eagle-fetish
to brewing cappuccinos...
a dutch-irish... well a dumb pollack joke...
yes... and now that the virus is caughing
via the retards in the supermarket isles
or licking ice-cream / toilet rims...
i guess an honest workforce is...
something to be less ashamed of...
compared to this ****** nation of:
the readily to be exile puke of reason...
"of their own"...
i seem to have elevated my...
concern for words...
i have just started to read my Charles Dickens...
and relying on Monday
to eat a more delightful roast dinner:
i says... it taste better... because it's not
a Sunday... it's a Monday...
plus... the roast is not exactly a roast...
it has some elements of bleau at the center...
because... you can't expect three
people to eat that much meat in a single sitting:
given the recipe for those yorkies from
ol' grandma of a james martin...
100g of flours, 4 eggs... circa 200ml of milk...
salt, pepper...
the dough is left in the fridge for an hour
at least... the yorkie trays are put into the oven
at 220C with the oil...
while the tatties are browning and the beef
is readying itself for the abstract
of my mouth... and the cubism of my ***...
pristine squeeze...
if only in h'america...
what wouldn't a norman davies call
the polacks if not industrial albino (s)*******?
then who were or would be... eire-
just -ish?
but the new continent:
i'm toppling down into the torso of a well-off
snowman built from an avalanche...
if there were britons here prior...
which includes the welsh and the scots...
and those people of Shropshire...
and those botanical tsars of Kent...
whoever these people are...
the noble barbarians...
the better of vikings with no fjords
to revel in farming on?
maybe those kind of people...
that sort of the native...
oh god forbid i should entice the cosmopolitan
brood to enter the debate...
not in the heart of the matter: come york
and its shire...
some longshank hobbit might
just pop its head up to high and kiss
a guillotine!
if there were the anglo-saxons...
eh... some of us came... settled...
we wanted to... find... the englishman...
circa... 1860 - 1950... that sort of timeframe...
i guess we finds him...
question is... czy ja jestem, lecz czy on?
that's a good question...
is he the host and i the parasite...
well... funny that...
he isn't a body...
he's an oak that was uprooted
from somewhere among a many many
pines and birches in the eastern provinces
of this continent...
and moved... into a garden...
lurking: shadow... hunched crow
and some other hideous comparison...
am i the parasite? what host of a mind i did
acquire: who's me...
or i am him... then i'll drift into the other
trench and i'll tell the germans
that they're fighting anglican saxons...
what? yes i'll tell them...
they're not lutheran saxons...
they're anglican saxons...
how? they have a monarchy...
a crown, central...
no petty princes bound to a federation...
i have also some across the modern natives...
the alt-right and the ethno-nationalists...
apparently: i'm not in the club...
how could i be...
i overheard them talking about...
electing a monarch...
election of monarchy...
well... no point investing in the gene pool...
last time that was tried...
was in the guise of the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth...
the brothel of kings...
some were hungarians, some were "germans"...
some were even swedes...
the aristocracy elected a king...
a john lackland sorts from across europe...
until their big brother richard
or some variant of Otto or the proper didlo in
hand charles gustav would...
appear to wrestle with his baby brother's:
"betrothal" - evidently thart's one for the misnomer
and inversion...
the anglo-saxons as they were to be later known
as... no point beating about the bush...
but... i have measured myself against
these other inhabitants...
the welsh, the scots, the irish... and... well...
i'm not here on part of a conquering army...
my fellow countrymen are just about overwhelmed
by enjoying 100 years of privy
and freedom... little much of good will that do them...
a half-bred popular opinion:
that i hide my language in the freedom
i allow myself within english...
i'm here for the Dickens and the sunday roast beef:
and the yorkies... and the haggis and the neeps,
the mashed and roasted tatties...
and the black pud'...
i'm not here to see how far west my ***
will point while bowing toward mecca...
if you don't mind me saying...
like i am not here for that kippah u.f.o.
ghetto of Golders Green...
i'm not here for a Marx on loan...
i'm here for a... "hashtag"...
eh... the saxons have their unifying:
nomadic perspective to mind...
it's not like the saxons were not liked by...
say... the pomeranians...
or the swabians... or the brandenburgers...
the saxons: semites of the north...
pseudo-vikings wishing for the proto- prefix...
well... are the modern saxons...
saxons? the saxons ****** off to england...
later ****** off to build the british empire...
i'm sure... the modern "saxons" are just
that... brandenburgers... some swabians...
the germans that stayed and were the enemy
under kaiser wilhelm...
that great... grandson of queen victoria...
yes... that war wasn't the war to stop all lineage
in-breeding... because...
it would take whittle adoolf the failed
art student to wake up the petty-bourgeoisie...
fully donned in khaki...
and in hugo boss schwarz...
and in... gulag grey-leash... of the wehrmacht:
of course...
but anglo-saxons are, and were...
and there's this... grand ethno-etymology...
listening to the natives...
codes: white-genocide... ethnic displacement...
let me run back and check the state of affairs
in mother russia and ******-land...
polonia (in latin)... oh right...
i just heard... that a woman in russia...
university educated, a doctor, no less...
also believes that churches should be exempt from
restrictions on social gatherings...
because they are holy places...
and... viruses... in their primitive square / rectangular
modes of abstracting vectors...
or de-abstracting for a better cushion
of solid ground made... also have...
a sense of a higher-beings modus operandi
when plagued with doubt, or denial...
the virus knows what's scared to the russians...
too bad for all those russian buddhists...
dunno... what european are the westerners
worried about?
i'm here on "holiday"...
to read my Dickens: finally! it only took me
20 odd ******* years...
and my sunday roast on a monday...
if there came a wave of anglo-saxons...
while the pomeranians stayed strapped
to the holy german empire "thing"...
and because there weren't any anglo-bohemias...
or modern anglo-czechs...
i'll branch out anyways...
to the "greater" picture masquarade...
i'll be an anglo-slav if...
and... oh look! they're here already...
i'm an anglo-slav... among the other minority
of the afro-saxons...
after all... there are tiers to migration...
there's that tier of polacks moving with the government
during the "affair" of circa 1943...
the no. 303 boys...
and... after that? no one from ******-land
wanted to come to britain... h'america...
the golden retreiver...
given the cold war... de facto:
to the antonym of the mensa harvest...
i came in the 1990s...
******-land and the other 8... joined the already
failing european union in 2004...
hmm...
well... you did get that cabbage plucked...
that carrot too...
from... the sort of people without tic-toc
who... would rather **** braincells with a *****
after a god's monstrous maxim...
while i started sweating from my armpits
hunched with these words...
enough of braincells to ****...
not enough imaginative in a quasi-vivo state
of... the cannibal narcissus...
attention spans a week's worth of
goldfish adventures... licking ice-cream
you won't buy...
then again: a lacking paul...
is an otherwise over-eager pauline...
even if "we" were to become fully "integrated"...
like hell i was giving my mother tongue up
after that 1997 /1998 interlude...
i still wouldn't be able to teach my father the english
they speak: peppered with nuance from
the old mother grammar...
too bad... but the pronunciation is spot on...
i don't know why i should feel obliged to
the ******* on the cross to feel "circumcised"
for... his labyrinth...
i couldn't teach my father better english
than the english already spoken: among the natives,
for the natives...
at home... mother is the cue... tongue
and everything otherwise...
we'll sample with the natives their delight in
minority cuisines...
but come monday... esp. a monday...
after a lunchbox worth of food of a sunday
feeling lazy... well... it just tastes better when
it's not... predicated on a riposte of...
conventions and harangue of: past-participle
expectations...
that sentence is littered with misnomers...
to add to the... otherwise... bland... talk...
correct... talk...
but i really couldn't teach my father
better english...
i have made this language sacred in my own
right as... both parasite and host...
interchangeable... of course...
eh... master and slave dynamic doesn't really
get me all hot and bothered...
i much prefer the lessened hiararchical nuance...
the co-dependency the symbiosis...
of a parasite and a host...
after all... it would seem the head of the pyramid
is a... fungus infection of the brain...
or at worst... a placenta martriarch of
a family of tapeforms: where, otherwise...
a foetus should be...
i'm not into boot-licking...
but... if the anglo-saxons used these isles
as a spring-board to forever imitate the children
of zion...
i'm just the leftovers...
the anglo-slav among afro-saxons...
the "great replacement"...
woe'woe'woe... and that's a word that
should devolve into a calm down / halt insinuation...
who came after 2004... the people who didn't see loopholes
and wouldn't be seen gambling...
the sort of people that would most certainly
go back to the ***** and: the law & justice party
embrace...
the xenophobic extracts of:
the impossibilty of the red sea
parting story... since they would never be the ones
there...
that grey area...
like i am a grey area to them...
given... how many times did i want to spend
a summer at the ****** version of Woodstock...
Pol'and'Rock at Kustrin?
lack hell i am...
i'm confined to my little abode of folklore
anglo-saxony...
rather: not having played the boogie man
from an 1960s period piece of:
vaginal and viagral expectations...
or... that thing known as brit-pop in the 1990s...
or... i've passed through york...
on my way to edinburgh...
but yorkshire... beside the yorkies...
spuds? they call them?
maybe... i'm counting 7 x 5cl to leverage
me at half a 70cl... but... looking at
what 35cl looks like turned into dosage...
i'm seeing more... than half an empty bottle...
i'm seeing the bottle as half full...
i guess this "predicament" came from
alcoholic slang and... positivism...
it's hardly optimistic... given... it's only
a perspective on only one bottle...
and there's still that sea to drink!
well... that's that... it was a most
enthralling ride back toward a square-root of 0...
much appreciated...
now i'll just turn to the bed and the cushion
my head rests on...
and tell myself:
this person was never born...
nor will his words take to boast about...
a nativity play...
nor a pride in Shakespeare...
it's one thing's worth a good reading...
quiet another... to treat it as an enzyme for
the collective: a catalyst...
to "re-invent" the wheel... as it were...
i have given birth... to perhaps...
the greatest thing i could "steal"...
then again... i am very much...
exaggerating...
but this was not born from the ****** ethnicity
of some european island folk...
it was born on the continent...
and it was somehow lived in and with...
never allowed to exfoliate into a courtesan...
annoyance... i gave it a limbo cage
both the host and parasite could enjoy...
after all: this language is a parasite...
i acquired when integrating...
i am the host...
the parasite can dictate what it wants...
a blank page to exfoliate a boquet(t)e with / in...
it would most certainly appear more
orthographically sound: if boquete had an added T...
well... some will cite Shakespeare the first of and
the end of... what's defined as Ęglish...
i like to think of the... "subtle" master...
i somehow knew it was in him...
after watching the film-adaptations... not good enough...
not having read David Copperfield...
a brush with J. D. Salinger and all that
holden caulfield Son-of-Sam sort of crap...
i guess you just have to age a little...
a little is never greedy... and pounce on that great
big peacock playing: the pink elephant in the room!
that's me... Dickens wasn't impossible
to "unsee" or "not see"...
i just needed...
the right sort of hashbrown sort of nudge...
enough organic encounters with yorkies...
baked tatties... h.p. brown sauce and enough baked
beans...
yep... now i'm ready...
it's time to gently slide away from
Macbeth... and into Dickensian prose...
the Pickwick Papers is as any good place to start...
all the better: since it came highly
recommended why i was still in high-school...
all those... ****... 18 years later.
