i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?

.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?

one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..

Shivering against the cold
Fresh hair cut and she is old-
er
Wire fox terrier off white

plays hard and treats her toys light-
ly
curly lamb to sleek slim cut
demands attention, no if, and or, but

"Pretty me pretty me pet me keep me warm"
She is more than just a pretty face, not a farm-
dog
Curled up close against my leg to ward off the cool chill tonight

She is a companion dog and all her challenges are now my delight.

Come on do The Locomotive with me
Shildon smoky days with black sheet cloud
terrace rows
buy some cheap beef shank for the dog
open shuttered butchers smell of blood
sit at the bar peel the sheets soggy New Statesman
by the glass
started reading it on the toilet at home
had to get out
sink the pints eat a chicken tikka masala flavour
pork pie isn’t that an oxymoron? and humour
Gappy slumped at the bar no longer violent new leaf turned
collects shopping trolleys in the Asda car park
he’s got a badge and a green jacket waterproof
which is nice
so come on do The Locomotive with me
roadside ****** familiar faces though not so many
these days
faded glory days wall images of train filled
old days of engineering and purpose and place
the starting point of a world phenomenon a
phenomenon that brought global joy and death
in equal measure but sod that
Darlington and Stockton
got all the glory.

Last night I had an Indian,  
And today I have the runs,
It struck me in an instant,
Now unable to sit on my buns

I told them I want a dopiaza,  
With some chicken tikka on the side,
Now my pants are brown and moist,
From society I'll have to hide

I'm stranded inside my bathroom,
Fearing even the shortest walk,
Knowing if I pass a person outside,
About my stench they'll start to talk

I advise you stay clear of this cuisine,
For the sake of all your hineys,  
I know that next time I venture out,
I'll be opting for a Chinese.

.why? why?! why would i even be, remotely,
concerned?
    esp. with a story from yesterday
akin to that of a feminist poster being
taken down, that read:

    woman
        women
    noun
   adult human female

because some, sorry... i love the word:
****** / doctor "thought" the word:
woman was endangering
transgender people...
                                                 wow!
looks like the homosexuals are on the attack...
can you be a misogynist and a homosexual,
simultaneously? well... apparently you can!
bravo! encore! encore!
    so should i be bothered when such antics
are taking place in: of all places, Liverpool?
**** it, i'm going to have a beer and watch
the sunset - or at least that's what i thought
a few hours prior.

the **** was i doing, watching channel 4
news?!
      i do remember watching it...
why was i watching it?
     for all it's worth...
                they do a pretty solid job,
**** me, they even reported on Iranians
using instagram...
                        gotta love the Shiites...
probably my favorite Muslims...
   given their Persian background -
proud face, like those native Americans
in the film hostiles:
   proud faces...
                        well... if you're going
to root for someone, root for the "underdogs"...
those Persians were never going
to bow down to the camel jockey Arabs,
sure as **** they wouldn't, and didn't...
ah ****...
  that's the problem with drinking,
and writing at the same time...
   in vino veritas...
     shh... it's a secret...
                    one downfall of drinking
and writing...
                      hmm...
                         ­     really hard to tell a lie...
by god it's hard to tell a lie
while drinking...
     why? there's no fun in telling a lie,
spinning a fictive narrative,
marketing character understudies or
fan-bait...
                a bit like:
Chopin...
                     versus a ******* orchestra...
(yeah, sorry about that...
   oath words, i swear,
   are compiled in the category of and:
i.e., they're conjunctions...
   otherwise i'd stutter, or something much
worse, like a writer's block & ****)...
wait...
   what was i going to say?
ah!
   channel 4 news... sure... it pure left,
globalism, multi- blah blah blah
and further blah to the nth term...
i couldn't believe it though!
   obviously the two stories were going
to be spoken about side by side...
     first... the second arrest of Tony Robinson...
apparently yet another, or another yet:
contempt of court...
     scenes from the Old Bailey...
and, d'uh, obviously,
   Jeremy Corbyn opening a placard of
a sq. dedicated to the far right
    "terrorist" attack on... ***...
  can't remember her name...
    Joe... hey Joe... where do you think
you're going with that gun?
Janie's got a gun...
                   this **** never gets old:
Chris Rea: Josephine...
       i send you all my love,
  and every single step i take
i take for you...
i would never believe that so much of
Van Morrison has that many
  jazzy accents in the oeuvre...
moondance:
   and a crisp, cloudless early
afternoon illuminating the birds,
the blues of flowers and the contract
of the about to shoot
  into embers of होली Holī
envious greens...
turmeric, chilli powder,
     cumin, fading cardamon,
garam masala,
                      coriander...
cinnamon,
           then the masalas:
   tandori, achar, tikka....
    then korma and the sri lankan
powder...
blue indians have their celebrations
in spring,
  i'm about to spectate the celebrations
of autumn... win win...
but that's still not the point...
channel 4 news...
  oh ****!
  Gavin!
   Gavin Mcinnes!
    **** me!
          hmm...
   love the tartan suit...
******* looks plush!
about as much style as matt preston
  (from Australian Masterchef)...
**** it,
   i forgot which of the chicken
wings recipes i am supposed
to make tomorrow....
                               *******!
the Azerbaijan recipe, or the...
oh ****... o.k. i can tell the difference
between the porcelain of the Japanese,
and say... someone from Thailand...
whatever... i'll cook something anyway.

even the queen doesn't wear as many pompous garments
throughout the year, as she does  upon coronation,
or the annual opening of the parliament -
high almighty she sits, in the chamber
of the house of lords, before the
"commoners" / middle-class pimps
lords of the manor of Cambridgeshire
are later summoned by black rod -
all the knock knock jokes stem from there:
black rod - knock knock.
the commons' - who's there?
black rod - black rod!
the commons' - black rod who?
black rod - black rod you wouldn't even care,
                    the pigs' trough is waiting.
but even the queen doesn't wear
all the garments she's entitled to upon
this occasions - i mean the full garment...
so is the commoner's approach to
vocabulary... on a printed page of a book
a poem looks: so much more menacing!
it's as if i actually have stamped
each poem, and they're not r.t.s. (return
to sender) example of bypassing
and destroying the the royal mail
with a magician's snap of the fingers...
but as honesty goes, the internet made
one magic trick, snap of the fingers,
and a thousand centipedes of postmen
disappeared in a second... gone... flushed
down the social-cohesive toilet...
it's called: improvement... the Chinese
are like: bring them over, we have
a billion and we need the leg work,
done and dusted, the last meaningful
letter i ever received was... i don't remember:
safe to say: never.
i am actually comparing something,
opened a beer, sat on a windowsill,
and thought to myself: after i digest
Stephen King's media outlet with his
many ghost writers, i'll smoke a cigarette
and read that ghastly thing that has my
name and picture printed on it...
it's ****** hard to read your own thoughts
back: given elephant narcissus in the room
and the bay leaf sensation in your mouth
rereading the ******* -
oh, by the way, in my culinary arsenal,
on today's menu: pork tikka masala -
i know, a heresy, tikka masala paste extra,
but to infuriate the palette:
not ground cumin and coriander, seeds,
a bay leaf... cloves (not necessary),
and cardamon pods -
                                freshly chopped tomatoes,
creme freche instead of double cream and
yogurt - garam masala, Kashmiri chilly powder,
paprika, turmeric... anti-dementia exercise:
what the **** did i put in?
50% youth unemployment in Greece,
45% and 40% in Spain and Italy respectively,
well, if you're going to have an existential
crisis, i.e. you're not in denial about old age
and how the Dutch and the Swiss and the Belgians
are the great humanitarians of our time...
might as well have one now.
funny enough, most people will not be saving up
for a pension... they'll be saving up for
euthanasia... honest to god, the lemmings are coming!
the lemmings are coming! in human terms:
that's not a myth.
****... what a digression... even the queen doesn't
wear the many garments presiding over her
role as being understood upon the annual
opening of parliament: in layman's terms,
i mean that to be synonymous with vocabulary...
a.i. says one as an abstract version
of all the other pronouns...
   the royal says we: because there's always
an entourage of lackeys and servants -
all the commoners get stashed in i, the over-exemplified i:
egoism, you, he, she, and the paranoid collective
of the royal's we, i.e. they...
it came to me rereading the Frederick II
Hohenstaufen Linguistic Experiment -
i realised, because of certain words having
a near ~synonymous status:
mainly because they're so closely bound,
and like triplets, you can't have three different
wombs to get the bunch out
(oh, i have fried twins on toast,
once or twice, twin yokes in one egg,
i wonder: would they ever... er...
become Siamese? division gone awry,
or God teaching angels mathematics,
someone's bound to slip up... oh come on...
give room for some ****** simplicity!) -
what i want to reiterate is: even the queen doesn't
wear all the required authoritarian garments
throughout the year: look at her taste in
frocks... a puppet without a puppeteer -
now that's authority, wink-wink-oi-oi
nudge of the elbow, 'ello 'ello 'ello 'ello;
the same goes for me, you and every other
Jack and Jill... three words...
all statistical... mode... median... mean...
now, i haven't the foggiest how to differentiate
you a meaning for each... thus
looking at the poem i mentioned:
ontological modes - i.e. certain words can't
provide ontological modes -
attacking the verbiage, you honestly haven't
read continental thought, roll a spliff,
****** off... anyway...
it's like the queen's story... let's say her
garments are necessary analogy: she doesn't
wear all the pompous cloth and pearl
every day, unless it's everyday in a painting...
that's the same with vocabulary...
plus mode, median and mean are congested into
an alphabetical coercion -
let's say zoological and anthropoid -
so far apart you can almost keep them freshly
imprinted to a satisfying differential immediacy -
i.e. you can give me a meaning of the two words...
but mean (1) is soon followed by median (2)
                later comes the meaning of mode (3 -
in alphabetical order... even though
the alphabet has only a quantum chronology -
  compact a, first, then b - stranger that it
wasn't supposed to be necessarily e) -
which is why we seem to unhinge from specific
vocabularies - in education we are strained
at times to learn specific vocabularies,
but later discard them, we're actually repelled by
categorised vocabularies: niche vocabularies -
from the moment of hinging unto certain
words, we immediate unhinge from them...
leave school, learn to earn money...
as with the queen: we don't wear all the garments
of the vocabularies we were exposed to...
the difference being: she gets reminded...
the majority of us never get reminders
about using certain words: even in pub trivia
general knowledge quizzing, or that's the last
resort... for the most part, that's
what the dictionary is for:
                            it's prime utility has an
   a posteriori ontology -
                whereas the thesaurus (rex) has an
a priori ontology: which is why writers look up
words on the synonymous scale to create an exotic
jungle, which would otherwise look like the meadows
of Hyde Park... plus the dictionary states a word's
etymology - which doubles the proof that
a dictionary has an a posteriori ontology / nature
    of being used -
                                 in abstract, yes, ontology:
                 nature of being per se - box of chocolates
and Forrest Gump's wisdom on: you never know
what the kaleidoscope will show off and what you'll
get: mint?! yuck!
                             but as i already stated:
even the queen doesn't wear all the garments
required for the annual opening of parliament
every day... as with us and our lesser jewels:
words - not all words are there to be kept on
close surveillance through the year -
                     it's worthwhile remembering that
each of our faculties has a weakness...
and not all words are permanently loyal to us,
primarily through environmental fluctuations
governing their use, outside of a chemists?
would you necessarily hear nouns used in a chemist
outside a chemist? probably not...
so that's how i do mental crosswords -
well, i have absolutely no clues -
you have a bank balance an average Chinese
might have of 3000 ideograms -
    find me the tetraideogrammaton!
    earth wind & fire... & water...
                       but that's how i known i'm doing
crosswords in my head... a long forgotten word...
revisited... and instead of creating clues and guess
work: i have a narrative, anew -
a word once used in an examination paper,
later discarded, now revisited for my pleasure -
but we never have a complete account balance
of our vocabulary, that's always fluctuating like
stock-market share prices -
                we're like the queen without her
authoritarian garments most of the time -
                              we have (on purpose) set up
various bank accounts for specialised topics /
obscure knowledge - i really don't know if this
was a good idea - crosswords and obscure knowledge
trivia - again, like at school, this is a way
to misplace the greatest outlet of memory:
the optic foundation - the photographic something or other...
which, by way of consent has the power to
show us the dark room being opened -
      the Black Dot Eraser - happens all the time:
the Black Dot Eraser is like a concentrated form of
something, prone to insane gravity of pulling everything
into a nano-metre dot... a blind censor -
                      who says: i haven't seen anything prior,
and even with your words attempting to illuminate
the sense that hasn't graciously been bestowed upon me:
i will not see anything after.
                       unappealing the quest for
a unifying sense datum... of the five variations,
      given the five senses, how can we every reach
a simple i i i i i                 rather than a variable
                                      i i I I i?
      it's a basic schematic - a variation of?
some words (datum in exclusiveness) have variations
   in being ascribed sense - given there are give senses,
not every word (datum as exclusive of 4, but inclusive
   of at least 1) can be ascribed a placebo uniformity:
   i i i i i -                           since the nature of a datum is
   to show us fluctuation:
                                      e.g. i i I I i...
   given that different people, react to a word differently
in each sensual medium: the fluctuation of
   being given a piece of information inscribed in a word
when ingested by hearing, seeing, speaking, etc.
well... that's that: 200 camels came by the oasis
and drank 200 litres of water each (that is their
actual capacity after crossing a desert) -
                                                            and that's that:
testimony to the superiority of the oryx.

Sailing away on a luxury liner
Packing your bags and eloping to China
Building a castle and digging a moat
These are all things you can't do with a goat

Any assortment of wrapping and bagging
Over the fireplace or under the lagging
In your pyjamas, in Tupperware boxes
These are all places that irritate foxes

An onion, a carrot, a plantain or mango
A tikka kebab and a bottle of tango
A handful of pencils, a flaming baton
These are all things that won't fit in a swan

Pet shops and grocers and stationary suppliers
Takeaways, rivers and all kinds of fires
P&O; cruises, kebab shops, IKEA
These are all places I'm not allowed near...

**

It’s Tuesday again—not a clue what the date is.
It’s Tuesday.


A tikka curry is simmering on the stove.
There’s no wine in my paper cup (I used it in the food).
A refill it is, then— not too much— leave some for the guest;
nobody likes a drunken host.

I set the table:
two spoons (my guest insists),
two bowls (he’s messy),
a roll of toilet paper (he’s got style).

The elevator doors open—
I know this because they make an annoying choo-eet, choo-eet sound,
and I’ve been living in this ******* apartment
for longer than I can remember.

Footsteps echo through the corridor—
Oh, I’m so excited when he visits!
Even the little cows on the kitchen curtains are smiling.
Hope he enjoys the curry.

The doorbell rings twice – such an impatient little man,
but I do so enjoy his company.
I open the door and give him a hug;
he whispers in my ear, *Good evening, me.

i find looking at my library that reaches the ceiling
more entertaining that watching television,
to be honest i prefer watching inanimate things
more than those caught up in animation,
my memory becomes the film's director,
and my imagination the producer,
while many personae come on stage with my thought.*

woke up lazy, usual me, unusual me
when i think about it,
going to a catholic school we had to adorn
catholic school uniform,
blazer, tie, polished shoes, trousers,
white shirt...
i liked it back then: i have one specific sunrise
in winter to remember, having just
discovered jethro tull's aqualung album
when the mojo music magazine was still
in print and they listed the top 50 prog rock albums,
obviously the no. 1 spot was reserved for
pink floyd's dark side of the moon,
don't know why king crimson didn't win,
i guess the complexity of the matter didn't have the appeal,
but it was good, wearing school uniform,
having two / three days of your own clothes days
once you coughed up a quid or two for charity,
the point being... you can't tell rich from poor
if there's a specified attire... plus there's less clingy
exceptions to be made, less imagination involved,
less care for having to pick your next attire the previous
day to impress someone, less discrimination altogether,
as those non-uniform days proved:
a maths teacher said i looked like a lumberjack once,
mr. crickmore, ex-trader on the f.t.s.e. floor,
turned maths teacher, supporter of manchester city,
so i was wearing a three coloured chequered shirt
(blue, red and white), jeans (obviously blue)
and red converse... lumberjack he said... fair enough,
but the dim truth of it all is that reality is dull
off the catwalk, less creativity of cloth, it's more about
comfort, as i found when i decided to do a fox fur trick:
become like those inanimate things just a little,
be more peculiar and attentive when something changes,
starting from the digit 1, and then expanding into
a sequence we call phenomena - so i liked wearing
school uniform, i was, after all, enlisted into an army of
jesuit youth... although i rebelled having read a book
about heresy (mainly the gnostics) and didn't want to be
confirmed, and wasn't; but there's less discriminatory
behaviour if everyone wears the same all year round
and there's no peacock days involved -
and subsequently the days of my prime schooling
are remembered with less regret, and less adults
exploiting a semi-fact of how **** it was and moaning
and moaning about it just in order to sell it to gullible youth.
but today?
woke up, lazy as hell, the c.d. i put on to fall asleep to
was obviously finished, turned the radio on,
classic f.m., had to hear something breezy and airy
without larynx that the violins are, not to mention
the woodwinds, and the news, had to hear that,
the toilet was too far away (not really),
two bottles of coca cola, one almost empty,
urinated into it, ******* the cap, fell back to bed,
lay there for about half an hour, news came, heard it,
got up... made cinnamon coffee smoked a few in between
my "tuberculosis" coughs (it's minus 4 degrees in the nights,
i drink a few bottle of beer on the trot, hence the coughing),
had about 3/4 of a bottle of whiskey left,
went back and turned on a few compact disks (
i know, i was born too late to collect black vinyl 12", oh well,
80s silver craze), poured 1/4 of the whiskey over ice,
and instead of pouring the other coca cola's bottle content,
i didn't realise i was pouring something in
that, upon opening didn't fizz... AH ****!
yep, mixed 1/4 of whiskey with my own ****...
had to pour it away... but what a waste!
after that it was all downhill... made a tikka masala curry,
adding sweet mango chutney to a list of ingredients
too long to remember...
and upon my usual walk for ***** a strange thing
happened in the supermarket...
a gorgeous late 40s woman cashier inquired about my hands,
the longbow man's V to the french bandaged,
and whether my hands were cold... something
about buying muttons...
you see, i once wrote that the most ****** part of a woman's
body are her hands... ... ...
she was ****** flirting with me!
in my head a few minutes after it sounded like:
put your cold cold hands onto the warmest parts of my body...
as i said also, once: when a woman becomes erotically
pulverised the temp. in her mouth drops,
and the temp. in her... ahem... increases; juices flowing.

it was truly a most wonderful day... i would have never thought
that Coldplay were such a grand band live...
it's not that i love them: it's that i just don't hate them...
work started at 3pm... we were supposed to sign in at 2pm...
i was 15 minutes early...
a £1.99 coupon from the Metro meant i could eat
a Big Mac and some fries before the shift...
a father and his little daughter sat down next to me
while a man talked to himself about perverts...
while being underdressed...
the heat was unbearable....
                      ****... i had to take 8 newbies to their shift
locations... i was on turnstiles... giving out wristbands...
i talked a minimum of any possible talk...
thanks you this thank you that became mere
nodding and smiling...
i don't think i touched so many female wrists in one
go... i was working for a hard-on of:
i'm not wearing a hat... or a kippah...
i really felt like ending this day in a brothel...
we finished at 8:30 when Coldplay came on...
we had 30 minutes to spare...
in that free 30 minutes they played my two favourite
songs: adventure of a lifetime and... paradise...
but Coldplay wasn't the Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
i don't hate them: but i don't love them...
i forgot to look at the stage when i saw the entire
Wembley stadium illuminated by those glowing
wristbands we were giving out...
i was there for the atmosphere rather than the band...
i smiled and put my head resting on a clenched fist
admiring humanity...
when humanity allows itself to relax...
and enjoy music...
we finished at 9pm... i didn't eat anything from
circa 2pm... so i went into the Wembley Lahore
curry house... ate at lamb tikka wrap...
sure... i'd love to have stayed for the whole concert...
but i also loved the idea of not queuing up
with the crowd...
       plus?! i'd get paid for the shift until 12am... even
though i finished at 9pm... so?
once i sampled the atmosphere i was glad
to ******* from there...
which meant? each... ****** time...
i have some remains of **** in my body
i get these head-jerks like i'm about to fall asleep
but get rudely woke-up...
at Liverpool street i did what ****-break did in
American Pie: people should stop ******* on the toilet
seats... i'm tired of putting toilet paper all around
the toilet seat... just to sit down and squeeze out
the shy remains of a loaf...
                   but i did... the pressure in my head
decreased a little... i drank a cherry apple cider admiring
Liverpool St. station... got on a train
and ****** off to Goodmayes...
got out... bought a 750ml bottle of cider...
walked around in circles with it.... thinking: best dilate myself...
i need to ****... plus... a dry cider?
after a heavy meal? works like an aperitif...
7.5%... that's the percentage for a cider...
it truly cures your digestive system of any blockage...
i then walked into the Tesco and bought 35cl of
whiskey and some Pepsi... did more circles drinking
about 150cl of the gold heart of ms. amber...

started rubbing my groins attempting to
get an *******... well... half-way through...
   not like a pervert: i was aiming to get something off my chest...
did another round of circle around the brothel...
walked in...
ah! there she was... a pretty plum of plump body type...
i needed that sort of body...
i only booked in for half an hour:
with a body like hers?! cherub plump?
what couldn't: what wouldn't have not done with it?

Michaela... that was her name...
i asked her if i could take a shower... i was sickly sweet
with sweat from the shift...
one hour or half an hour? let's see how it goes...
half an hour first... we'll see...
i'm pretty tired:

thank god for being able to take a shower...
wash my genitals etc.
and relax...

each any every man ought to feel this relief
after a day's worth of work...
whatever that work might be...
i was already admiring her physique from
the get go: her clothes were hardly an obstruction:
more, an invitation...
i do hope the people i work with never find
out about my secret life...
some are married and that's good on them...
i would never i could never love a single woman...
i'm like a ******* in that respect:
i need to be shared around...

it would break my heart to only love one...
to be faithful with only one...
i need more...
i'm the guy who "steals" kisses from prostitutes...
how Michaela jumped straight onto my lips:
like a bee toward a blooming flower...
i can't just tell her no... there's no simplified
version of NO... there's not no aversion to YES
either... it just happens...
i felt like a child with her adamant approach:
kiss me before we start playing hide & seek...
i like the plot of reassuring women...

she asked me whether i smoked, i replied yes...
i asked her: do you drink?
we smoked and drank some whiskey sharpshooters
before *******....
PARA-PARA-PARA-DISE...
it was a quickie... some girls like quickies...
i was feeling selfish: and thinking about shellfish...

i adore prostitutes... this one?
after a a kiss and a oral *** and: what position do you like?
*******: in the meantime:
i fell from my knee altar with a cramp...
ah! ah! CRAMP!
30 minutes was enough...
          oh man... she was butter, loaf, and a croissant
on the side... and: a man like me?
does he require a ring on a finger?
we ****** and then chatted...
Romania this that and the other...
no: i'm not here to **** them...
   i'm here t **** them them... i'm not here to love
them...
even they know the pretenses... of
suggested topic...

but how quick she was kissing  me...
i felt like a child...
kiss me: before i start playing this elevated guise
of hide and seek...
all before the *******: she did mention:
although Khadija didn't mention it...
£30 extra for non-****** *******...
£40 extra for vaginal ******* without
protection..
i'm not only here for half an hour...
and let me tell you...
i have a turtle's body that will be given wings...

i just received the splendours of slob
****** free for? for free!
my adoration for women is unbounded
in any framework if constriction...
love your mother like you might a *****...
or the reverse...
we smoked we drank, we talked...
i thanked her for becoming so relaxed...
to hell with marriage pleasure-dome melancholy...
i walked home back at 2am...

a very beautiful world...
                 but this girl... i kissed her lips: she stole mine...
i stole her eyelids...
we tried to make sense of our musical tastes...
plump body of plum....
           all the right shapes in all the right places...

i don't know why i'm on such good terms
with the MADAME and the "****":
maybe i'm just the type to love and to be loved:
why haven't you visited us more,
frequently, Matthew?
oh **** me, i'm on a first name basis?

next time a ******* steals a kiss from
me:
i ought to know the constellation
are awry....

i'm at it again, ******* to pictures of
naked women without climaxing...
i have to... i'm gearing up for an hour's
worth of the "***** deed"...
Michaela is going back to Romania
on the 28th of this month and
i have a Wembley shift on the 16th...

my god... i went to the shop to buy some ice-cubes
a whiskey and some pepsi...
and who was in front of me in the queue?
a ******* Rolls-Royce of a woman: my type...
my mythological type of woman... foreign...
i'm guessing German... blonde hair: but not albino,
ergo mingling with tinges of a brunette,
older than me, by i'm guessing at least 10 years...

definitely German... she was buying
(from what i can remember) cat food and beer...
i looked at her hands... no ring... i abhor jewellery...
my parents thought it would be cute for
a ****** boy to don a signet on the pinky finger
like the English aristocracy... i don't do rings...
even if i were married i couldn't wear a ring on my finger...
no chance! but this was a Rolls Royce of a woman...
suitor to my frame... big... well: not fat...
just: womanly: a womanly woman...
the type that might serve you beer in a tavern...

i lost my mind... certainly not a geisha type...
a bit like Michaela last night... oh...
she was plump alright: i really plucked a plum yesterday...
usually i have problems ******* within an hour...
Khadija sort of bypassed the ****** on her own whim...
Michaela also: but she asked me to pay her extra...
£30 for ******-less oral and £40 for the full deal...

i was only there for half an hour...
all that walking around drinking cider around the brothel
rubbing my groin to get the party started:
plus her frame? she looked like what artists or
men in general found attractive in the Renaissance:
plump women... i knew i was going to ******* pretty
quickly... an unfathomable force came along
an unfathomable object... sparkles...

with past girlfriends i was such a man-*****...
ooh... need to satisfy her blah blah...
Ilona even noted that not many men are like that:
she noticed my back-then ****** library:
i started reading that infamous book The Game by
that some other pick-up artist...
i soon found that pointless... started reading
Tantra... more useful...
but yesterday? i was a man...
            30 minutes: i heard women like quickies, no?
after oral she asked me, what position?
doggy... missionary is so ******* back-breaking...
but i wanted to look at her fat ***...
no... it wasn't premature *******...
it was: i just finished a shift...
i was out of the house for over 12 hours...
i was hot, sweaty... i started drinking...
forget getting something off my chest to a psychologist
or a priest... that third P...

it was blissful... it felt like the heat-wave was
over and it started raining: somewhere...
second time though? it won't be like that...
i'm already practicing keeping the *******
prolonged... it will take two or three days
or just stroking an ******* without actually *******...
but this Rolls Royce a blonde just now...
a full woman... a woman's woman...
feline eyes dabbed with the least amount of
mascara: a woman that was single...
but looked like she was catered to by a harem
of men... well: a harem of eunuchs and some sheikh...
at least: in my eyes...

a woman that could be the antithesis of cubism,
for sure... she could stand next to a Picasso
and i could tell you: that! that's the antonym!

i couldn't possibly behave like the noble swan
in monogamy... i also couldn't do whatever is "classical"
these days about what dating was about
in 1950s America...
no chance of that happening... this is Europe, after all:
we do things differently here...

- well that was a first, i never thought i would be
directing a bus driver about where to go,
his first shift: on the 86 bus route:
i was picking up a bicycle wheel from Bicycle King
of Chadwell Heath: one of my spokes
snapped from the heat... thankfully as i was about
to do a trip... anyways...
he turned around and opened his cabin door
and asked me to direct him... so i did...
this exit on roundabout x... that exit on roundabout y...
i remember the number 5 route back in Poland
ever since i kept to this comforting thought:
i wish to become a bus-driver once...
which routes? 86 is grand... 103 would be even better...

- Michaela? after we finished our "*****" deed
we just chatted... smoked cigarettes and drank
the whiskey i brought with me...
she asked me: do you smoke? yep...
so i asked her: do you drink? yep...
15 girls in total in the brothel...
2 Polish girls, 1 Turkish girl... 2 Russian girls...
the rest? Romanian...
what time do you finish? 5am...
what then, go back home and sleep?
no... i work in a hospital in central London:
i administer medication to patients...
i like showcasing my hygiene...
shower prior... washing my genitals after...
no... of course i wouldn't shower after having *** with
her: i want her body's perfume to stay with me...
she didn't shower after either...
like-minded ***-maddened people...

i love certain women too much to listen to western:
WASPS (western anglo-saxon protestant
feminists type): let's just have fun or let's just die...
i'm not coming near that "thing" without a yard-stick!
i'm serious!
            secretive "******" / nuns...
          i'm going to have a hard time ruling my secrets
under ol' king Charlie... i'm finishing off ol' Lizzie
reign with a crescendo... dearest Lizzie:
it has been a blast... thank you: god save the queen!

- stopped off at the Moon & Stars at Romford...
the smoking was packed so i sat on the public bench
with half-a-Guinness and smoked clinging to my wheel...
finishing my cigarette i implored fellow appreciators
of the brew if i could leave my stump of filter in their
ashstray:
- oi! mate! looks like someone stole your bike!
you're only left with a wheel!
- ha ha ha... pause... but it's a unicycle now!
- ha ha...

i'm starting to surprise myself more and more...
the alles-mensch...
i'm returning to people like i first met them
back in school...
the best way i can: as a chameleon...
i'm Matthew A with some... i'm Matthew B with others...
Matthew C with another group...
and they come to me like i'm some *******
priest, some advocate...
hey! if Walt Whitman could celebrate himself
i'm going to celebrate myself:
i'm done with feeling **** about myself:
i'm going to drink, i'm going to dance: to groove...
once upon a time there were serious leftist policies
and ideologies: that tied into an alternative
economic policy: but under the same yoke
of communism? it's ******* posturing...
i'm not going to take these people seriously: esp. if they're
coming from America...
people should know better...

- two songs...
      lyrically? run to the hills by iron maiden
and midnight oil's the dead heart are the same...
white man this white man that...
Poland was cut up in three by three great empires...
then it was resurrected and then it was conquered
by **** Germany and Soviet Russia...
then it was a Soviet satellite state...
hmm: why did the English invent cricket
and rugby and football?
a bit like that fortune that met Japan when a Mongol
fleet was met with a hurricane...
yawn: the Norman invasion of 1066...
the fortune of when the Spanish armada was
met with the fickle English channel weather:
a people who have not been conquered
for a long time: are not slack... slacking about...
so? whatever is coming out of America doesn't bother me...

mind you... the latest news is ******* promising:
isn't it? i wasn't a big fan of Salman Rushdie...
oh... right the two songs...
lyrically... similar?
musically though? there's that rough-edge:
bass that sounds like a horn...
Fall Out Boy's Uma Thurman has it...
and Midnight Oil's: the Dead Heart has it too...
it's a sound akin to the word: PROWL
if you trill the R... roll it... rattle it...

that's the thing with Midnight Oil...
i remember hearing that one song of theirs they
play on Polish radio... beds are burning...
i spent... over 10 years looking up both the band
and the song name: 10 years i was looking for that song...
and once i found it i figured: it's probably not even
their best song... hey presto...

oh right... Salman Rushdie gets stabbed 15 times in
the neck...
i'm not a massive fan: i tried reading pride...
mind you... i love the comparison he gives...
Satan is falling from the sky head first, calm,
motionless like a sack of potatoes...
while Gabriel? Gabriel is trying to imitate a bird...
flapping his hands and legs about...
i guess the former is a fatalist while the second
is a would-be-opportunist...
but **** me... 15 times in the neck?

i'm starting to think all Muslim men are secretly
women...
why? there's that quote: hell knows no fury like
a woman scorned...
well... that works just as well for Muslim men:
hell knows no fury like a Muslim man insulted:
wait wait... reiteration:
hell knows no fury like a Muslim being told there's
something like free-thinking...
that certain things can be scrutinised: revised...
ergo? Muslim men are feminine:
but no surprises... polygamy and eunuchs...
me? i don't care... like i told one colt outside of
a supermarket...
he gave me 10 squid to buy him a bottle of *****...
he was in a menage trois...
i took the tenner... bought myself a whiskey
and thought: hmm... might as well but him a litre
bottle...
walked out... oh man: i was mouthed off like mad...
why didn't you buy me a 35cl flask?!
why did you buy me a litre?!
i thought you wanted *****?
the argument became so heated that a security
guard emerged from the supermarket:
- i'll get my uncle to beat you up!
- boyo, listen... listen... i have a death-wish...
tell me where you uncle wants to meet up with me...
i'll just tell him you wanted to drink *****
at the age of 15 to impress a girl... your friend...
is already *******... you're just sloppy seconds mate...

oh sure... you can insult Islam by more ways than one...
Socrates? illiterate... Jesus? illiterate...
Muhammad? illiterate...
who accounted for the life of Socrates? Plato...
Jesus? hold up... a literate fisherman by
the name of Peter? so... fishermen were literate
but the carpenters weren't? ****'s sake...
what a gap... i can imagine a tax collector to be literate...
but there's a gap... carpenters were illiterate
but fishermen were... hmm...

Muhammad? despised in Mecca... took a trip to Medina:
what's the whole affair surrounding the Satanic
Verses? CRANES... some **** about how Allah
took an wife: a pagan Arabic deity... some **** like that...
i'm flimsy on the details...
the basic motto being: Allah has no partners...
he's ultimate omni-solipsist

that's how i arrived an the compliments towards
monotheism... sitting in the dark listening
to several variations of the Adhan...
this... monotheistic god: whether Jew-....
no no... he's different... the Hebrew god is equivalent
to Hades in Greek mythology...
in no known mythology: he's a god that's a god-eater...
he ate up Beelzebub... who was a deity:
before becoming Satan's sidekick...

insult Islam? what about that woman that ran around
two mountain ranges... wasn't she Abraham's concubine?!
she wasn't his wife...
monotheism = an autistic god...
a solipsistic god... a solipsistic...
the omni-verse of man's self capacity and capability...
it's a strange model since... polytheism produced
more interesting: more opened minded people...

oh: Islam is beautiful... just like camels and like
an oasis is beautiful: in a desert...
Dubai is also beautiful in a desert:
such a splendid: pointless city...
the Adhan... i love listening to Adhans...
those elongated vibrating vowels...
when Arabs sing it's perfectly alright...
they drop the glut of a drooling tongue of QBAH...

they resonate... they talk? i'm thinking about
sweeping the streets... or haggling over
some cheap **** in a flea market...

Muhammad was illiterate... funny... that flight from
Mecca to Medina... who did he marry?
an older woman... an entrepreneurial woman...
a businness woman...
funny... i ****** a ******* with her name...
Khadija... but this one is Turkish... she's not Arabic...
and unlike Muhammad: i'm writing
the ******* book, akin the lines of Elvis Costello's
lyrics: every, *******, day... me...
i'm writing it... because... who wrote the Quran?
at least the first surah?
Khadija! she wrote them! a woman wrote
the first entries of the Quran...
she was the literate one: he... sure as ****... from what
i heard: wasn't...
a woman wrote the first entries of the Quran...
mind you... why do the sheikhs adorn clothing in white
while the women are subject to attire in black...
seriously?! that predates Nietzsche proposition
of god being dead: who died?!
who died?! who died in order for women to suffer
so in the sun? that's predating the Victorian prim
and pomp...

            i don't want to understand these people...
stabbing a guy who scribbled some words
15 ******* times in the neck?
come on: hell know no fury like a Muslim man
insulted... guess his brain goes where his ****
is about to **** out a ******* Tikka Masala chicken
makeover with a pita bread and some veggie extras...
because: that's where it's going!

i do admire the adhan... like i admire crusader chants
of the templars...
but a call to prayer? i sense it: since i rarely dream...
a bit like... trying to have a handshake with my
shadow: a funny joke... prayer is such a selfish
endeavour... since... you're never really praying
for the betterment of others: just your self
and the solipsistic nature of a monotheistic deity...
love the songs: hate the tributes...

paint me: a prettier ******* picture...

it must be the heat... but i had this wild idea...
burning my brain... evaporating whatever is supposed
to be contained between the two ears..
and behind the two eyes...
woman are the best... but also the worst of humanity...
men? they're either the best or the mediocre...
after all: you can't be a ****** genocidal maniac to
begin or end with...
you're either a great genocidal maniac or you're not...

the point being... the love triangle of Paris...
Helen and Melenaous...
    hmm... i'm thinking...
i'm not a Holocaust denier... **** me: i'm pretty
sure a lot of Polacks were used to build
the concentration camps under forced labour...
no no... i'm thinking Helen...
i'm thinking who Adolf ****** dated...

i was watching this documentary where "they" excavated
genetic background checks from Eva Braun's
personal belongings... a hair-comb with her hair...
turns out... she had Hebrew ancestry...
so... ******... dated a Jewish girl... while: dessimating
the Jews... fishy... fishing for red herrings...
i don't care much for aliens:
i've seen a fluorescent UFO once...
obviously i didn't take a picture...
i was too engrossed in drinking and lamenting
while sitting under a tree in a summer that didn't
starve my mind with a heat-wave...

women are worst than men...
men are more stupid and smarter... paradox after
paradox... i'm thinking of Helen of Troy and i'm thinking
of Eva Braun...
is it a conspiracy theory? what if she...
a Jewish girl... whispered a sweet lie into that maniac's
ear... hey... you start a Jewish prone genocide:
our people: just might get our land back!
we might have our...
there was the genesis... there was the exodus...
what's the Hebrew word for the return?
the SHOAH-לַחֲזוֹר
        KHZUR... the event that's best coupled as:
SHOAH-KHZUR...
the calamity to return to one's homeland...
which... isn't... wasn't it true... come to fruition?!
Helen of Troy... Eva ****** nee Braun?
listen... i'm busy *******... i'm going to spend the next
few days ******* myself without
*******... so i can build up a stamina
for an hour and not finish: although: gladly...
within half...
        plus... i've already ****** a Turkish *******
with a name the same as Muhammad's first wife...
the one who wrote the first Surah of the Quran:
because... he was illiterate: while she wasn't...
my Hebrew might be off...
but... i don't believe in monotheism...
  to begin with...
                            i don't believe in an autistic
robot god... i don't believe in a robotic world...
some things can be changed...
but i sort of like entertaining the idea that Eva Braun
is the modern version of Helen of Troy...
the best an the worst in women...
in men? just the best and the mediocre...
she must have whispered into whittle Adolf's ear:
hey... you start killing my people...
the global community will finally decide to give the
Jews their homeland back...
start killing... genocidally...
i mean: **** me... didn't they commit a joint suicide?!
people conjure up fairy-tales all the time...
well: the ones that can...

after all i'm a huge fan of the Batman universe...
perhaps i didn't see my parents be murdered
as a child: what child does?
on a scale of averages...
i was raised by my grandparents: i had dogs for
siblings... i didn't see me father from the age
of 4 through to 8...
i didn't see my mother from the age of 6 through to 8...
i wasn't outright abandoned like
my father was by his parents and raised
by his grandmother and his foster grandfather...
maybe that's what makes me so "clingy" to them:
or the outright economic structures...
but? intellectually: i can prosper on my own...

i can have these thought: i have already stated...
i can read the newspapers and look down on
the journalists... you... established folk...
it's like these people are the ones with the money
to produce, buy and write eternal nothings
on papyrus... the priestly / journalistic class of folk...
but then the printing press appears
and the gatekeepers are bypassed...
ergo? the internet... i don't want money
for what i ingest, digest and therefore regurgitate...

i saw the potential for a cover-op.
                  i could really do some damage if i just
dedicated myself to a thirst for knowledge...
i could sit back and watch the world change:
like... like play-dough...
  and i have... and i will continue to do so...

with the Europeans having expelled the Hebrews:
who has been welcomed into our midst
to replace those Hebrews?
calamity-to-return... to one's abiding midst...
away from the Europeans and into the Arab lot...
after all:
didn't the Arabs and the Berbers conquer
Spain with the help of the Jews?
i heard that that's what happened...

i need to work on my Hebrew...
mind you... it's an enigmatic language...
how would i write shoah-khzur?

    ש (shin) i.e. the -in disappeares
vowels are diacritical marks in Hebrew...
although: א (aleph) and ע (ayin):
are the twin-gay-lords of Eden...
who somehow managed to give birth
to the children Leph and Yin through their ****...

i was told what i current wrote was a given:
but? makes no sense...
ש no O no A... ה
i would have written as שה...
                            i can now understand how and why
emperor Nero became so easily *******...
it wasn't about: oh these Hebrews and their fire deity...
he turned the early Christians into torches
and fed them to the lions, because...
look how these people write!
there are writing in cipher-mode!

there are no vowels in hebrew worth stating them
as letters! שה shoah: yeah... yeah!
Hebrew has two vowels as consonants: Aleph and Ayin...
the gay Adams...
all the other vowels are diacritical markers...
they're not proper letters...
vowels are female:
consonants as masculine...
don't: you ******* know... how nomadic people
work?!

the internet is DUMB... KHZUR...
לַ: that's lamedh...
      is the H a surd in Hebrew? i doubt it...
כהזר...

כהזר שה                  -->      <--

              how mighty must have the wrath of Nero
been... to turn the early Christians into
torches: where are your vowels!
i can see two vowels behaving like 'em!

i need to regret something...
on the 16th i'm going back to the brothel...
my favorite new album?
the 1987 release b Midnight Oil:
Diesel and Oil...
i need prostitutes...
i need more than king Solomon...
i have n infatuation with the bodies of mandible
potential...

there are words: that are letters:
shin-cholem-kametz-h'eh
kaf-h'eh-zayin-kibbutz/shurek?-resh ..

no wonder emperor Nero slaughtered the whole
lot of yous...
i wouled have too...
white man singing about the disgraces of fellow
white man...
good enugh for me: if the Africans weren't
moved to America and required to forget their African
tongue: they would sing zilch of the blues
and a zilch of jazz... there would be zilch
of Mbapa Ella Fitzgerald... no Nina Simone...
no "RESPECT"...
            *******: self-flagellating whittle white man
of the anglo-saxon demands...
no! if there was no slave-trade...
toward the Americas... there would be no jazz!
no escape from the mind of a Mozart...
Europeans don't have voices to sing!
Africans do! but they require a European tongue
to sing in!

what racial pride? pride in what?
not keeping your language?!
being black racist supe-racialists...
our ethnicity is more important than the language
we speak? seriously?!
you... you're doubly the slave...
you don't speak your mother's tongue...
you are urban *******...
that's what you are... to me...
urban *******...
                            i speak my mother's tongue...
i guess being bilingual can be a little bit complicated...
i guess it's easier otherwise...
urban *******...
                    "natives"...
                                      as a ****** i get the whole:
"native" project all the time... **** it...
i'm siding with the imaginary Tsar...
                                  no! nein! niet!
nie!

                                  i know what brown-skinned
people are like in the work-force... they're worse than
women: they're lazier...
i'd like to think about shooting them in the head:
to get them to move-on...
esp. their younglings...
their young are CULL MATERIAL...
maybe that's why they reproduce so much:
they are CULL MATERIAL...

maybe that's why i'm experiencing a heat-wave...
i'm building up an adherence toward
a super-structure of disease-aversion...
and that implies... racial-tension mechanisations...
because i have to...
i have to... the Chinese are not going to stop *******
silly... the Indians aren't... while the demands on
the Europeans to "save the earth": **** it...
no no.... listen...
this planet is decidedly going to burn...
i just don't care...

                        i don't have any children...
i don't have a future beside the future of an idea...
that's all i have...
i don't care...
                    you burn whatever you want to
burn...
  i just wish i was living in Apocalyptic Times
and i was the Mad Max...
i seriously wish i was the reinvested
patriarch Abraham in the reinvented times
of new beginnings...

i'm feeling good... i'm charging up... i've been charging
up for about four days so far...
jerking off without climaxing...
fixating on the crack: the grand canyon(s) between
the the ******* and ***...
my god... sprinkle some blues on me:
give me some alcohol... i need a straitjacket...
a... straightening-jacket...
i look sort of hunched... wild-eyed in my head:
but obviously playing poker externally...
i'm charged... Duracell bunny on the ready...
i can't wait for tomorrow...
that ****** shift... finishing at 9pm but getting
paid until 11:30pm...
i don't mind... the number of gigs i've seen...
sure... Coldplay have created the best atmosphere...
i hardly looked in the direction
of the stage... i was looking at the crowd
enjoying themselves: by "consultation" with the crowd:
i was enjoying myself...
     the best precursor for an hour in a brothel awaits me:
how many tender wrists did i touch...
fiddling with the wrist-bands last time?
ugh... sausage fingers of mine...
shy girls with wrists the girth of my *****...
ha ha... exaggeration... close enough... some...
me fiddling with tender hands trying to focus on
the binding... of course i touched them "up"...
well... the most tender meat in man is...
on the inner-parts... on the inner-parts of legs:
where thighs are external...
around the wrists... i sometimes elevate *******
to caressing myself around the inner skin
of my arms...
recently: rather: today: i started thinking about...
Albert Fish... it's not like i have a fetish for
American serial killers...
but you have to admit... inserting needles into your
groin prior to execution...
this inability to feel pain?
   exquisite... it had to be...
   or rather: it's not about not feeling it: it's like
that android in Prometheus exacted while
watching Lawrence of Arabia:
it's not that it hurts: it's not minding that it hurts...
i'm going to enjoy tomorrow...
fat chance of my going back to that Lahore curry house...
that Tikka Lamb wrap was utterly ****...
i'm heading for the cheapest... chain-gang-burger at
McDonalds... it's one thing to appreciate
the independent bicycle shop to get your bicycle fixed:
quiet another for any local north London grub:
just give me the Romford chicken shop alternative
just right off the station...

wrist-bands again... i'll be touching up so many maidens
up... perfect for me: i have a fetish for hands...
for hands... wrists just dissolve me...
shy eyes to boot...
i frenzy in a deep freeze while there's only heat
around me!
to hell with being a political creature:
to hell with being a social creature...
what i learned from Marquis de Sade i elevated
to the statures of Ovid: and i became alchemical!
i'm not stopping...

the crudeness of Marquis de Sade mingling
with the nobility of Ovid... what will you get?
you won't get... that crude example of
the womaniser that was Casanova...
perhaps: if i had the money i already have...
but then: life would be boring...
i like living a life not having what i could easily
have... if... i sold a few things in my property:
but... that would be boring... boorish...
i'm sentimental about beetroots...
and potatoes...

                         you probably didn't ask but i'll tell you:
women... of such volume... i... i...
i just can't help myself...
they have bodies that embody you...
they mingle with you...
they're like serpents...
i might have to do some extra push-ups...
i am high: perhaps drinking:
but the mere thought of *** secured is
like a drug...
of all sorts... i hope i don't dream up
anything... i probably won't...
    
i have ***** socks... even though i mopped the house
today... i can't find my loafers...
oh no no: i know where i have my shoelaces...
they're still attacked to my shoes...
what?!

the age of the guitarists is over...
it's down to the drummers and the bassists...
i should have started playing the drums...
i'm usually perched on a windowsill with
an invisible crow pounding out a rhytn:
hey! if Walt Whitman can write a song
of self-celebration!
i'll better him!

it usually takes three degrees of separation...
for me? it only takes two...

bassists: Michael Balzary (Flea)
  "vs." Justin Chancellor...
               Red Hot Chilli Peppers vs. Tool...
likewise the drummers...
Chad Smith "vs." Danny Carey...

        i'm not going to entertain any dialectical
approach: my opinions are fixed...
hmm... Socrates... what you think about
aesthetic-dialectical-fixations?
they have to exist, no? i just stated mine...
you can't approach certain matters
of discussion with a dialectical approach
to undermine your opponent
with a counter argument?
Socrates... you're not going to persuade
me! aesthetics lies outside the realm
of dialectics! the eternal motto:
beauty lies in the eye of the beholder:
you will be unable to change, my, mind!

you can't!
you can't tell me what i like or what i don't
like: what i'm supposed to or not supposed to, like!
which is why the idea of fame:
so many people aspire to: is so... flimsy...
it's flimsy because: the fame that is supposed
to arrive with it: is so selective:
if i were to call on fame: i'd call upon a deity!
all must know: or none at all!

i'm hardly begrudging: i'm just willing
to allow: people to make the willing sacrifices to understand
that... fame is a difficult process of
attainment: me? i'm aiming for fame...
after i die... not when i'm alive: hell no!
but not even Socrates... attired himself
in undermining the arts...
too scared... the ****** marched into war...
but attacking artists was too much for him...

what, dialectic when it comes to art?
people are fickle... "class" A likes art B...
"class" B likes art C...
you can't avoid the tides of the Thames
or the seas like you can't avoid the whims and fickleness
of peoples' preference regarding what
art is to be liked: what art is to be ignored:
what is to be abhorred: and what's to be
discarded!

there's no room for dialectical reasoning
when the sole reasoning is
a collectivised matter of: consensus!
there's no room for a quest for independent thinking
in some areas of life... art... entertainment:
no chance!
   one can at best: make hypothesis after hypothesis
at a distance... but never
able to implement any change...
no change is going to come
from an idea toward a system that behaves
with a kinship to its natural environment...
the entertainment industry changes with
what can be: at best... ascribed to a flock of investors:
or their lack of...

scared baby boomer typos of period-drama zombie folk
too scared to attempt euthanasia...
oh: but i'm here...
i'm gearing up...
i have my wet lips... tomorrow i'm hoping
to **** on a *******'s **** for free...
i'm here... whoever the **** i am...
i'm getting ready...
i'll die: that is certain...
but perhaps i'll have a legion of shadows
to manage...
who knows! after all, god is dead!

but before i go? i need children and animals on my side...
i need to showcase a few examples of
my benevolence on these poor creatures...
i need to be kind to children... i need to be kinder
to animals... the rest? will follow...
i've already done some of the exacted work...
thank you: thank you me, me... thank you: me...

that's how "the" hierarchy works...
first... be kind to animals... regardless of your
dietary requirements... the ones you pet...
what's that infamous Kurt Zouma chant
about kicking cats: left right and centre?
it doesn't matter about the diet...
pets... insects are enough proof...
i personally can't **** a fly... mosquitos?!
**** them! those crucifix fixators!

second? treat children in kind: with your own
stature: perhaps treat them with less of your
own stature...

thirdly? women... esp. the prostitutes...
no shame... no agitation...
i feel no pains over her experiences...

fourthly: my fellow man?
like i might treat my own shadow: i basically avoid it...
or: if i must... i peer into it
like a woman might peer into a mirror
and i find something difficult to carry
for a day's worth of carrying anything to begin with...

this has been a day's worth of carrying:
the weight of the entire day...
with sunrise and sunset...
with all the inhibitions of youth
and the exhibitions of old age...

2am is upon me... there's plenty of time to sleep:
and "wish"... Freud can *******...
i don't dream....
i just see or sleep...
                           dreams are the "vantage" pointers
of people that are reminiscent of people:
they're simply peopled-leftovers....
it was: nice... to learn something a little
via being dehumanised...

great learning...
               while they entertained their ******* Ascot...
while they glorified their clinging
to the crown...
i saw termites undermine the glorification
of hell's emblem of the crucifix...
heaven?! heaven didn't send the Lord of Mosquitos
into these realms!
hell did... 2000 glorious years
of progress via suffering!
and what have we achieved?!
the most glorious of things!

                                               hmm!
i dare to think: or not think!
i think we're living in a period whereby
Moloch will arise...
              western woman's fascination
with infanticide...
                    the Epoch of Moloch just started...
hell and all its fury is making a comeback...
for long ago did we fall into this dominion
of metaphors?!
                          ancient times await us... to try to
remember... perhaps that's why i'm not dreaming
when i'm sleeping...
ancient times await us...
perhaps god is forgiving giving the idiots surrounding
him:
perhaps the vanity i.q. of the likes of us
wasn't such a bad thing...
boys! i think we've been told to ascend!
gather up your marching orders!

we're going up! oh no... believe me...
we won't be singing!
apparently no cellos or violins... in the godly choir:
that's... about to change...
we'll be the orchestra! while the innocently new-born
will remain the choir!
oh... but we're going up...  Moloch took over...
women are making sanctity of baby-sacrifice their
natural right equivalent to giving birth!
no wonder the population of Africa and that
of India is exploding...
   i get it: life's too expensive...

Dante, or Milton?
            either: neither...
                             what's happening right now?
thank god i didn't invest in having children...
i'm so glad: oh so glad...
                 i just need one rotten idea of mine
to pass into a mind of a someone i'm genetically unrelated to!

it's curry night at my place
come over if you dare
of ****** maybe just in case
bring an extra pair

to start I'll serve a rogan josh
then tikka masala
you'll hear loud screams of oh gosh
then prayers to god and allah

and you'll learn about a dish
its called a vindaloo
and why first mouthful's so delish
but then it ends with loo

so tomorrow sunday morning
the church bells will be ringing
bellowing out a warning
of your impending high pitched singing

Reading Salman Rushdie
Thinking of the knife
Snowfall in Chicago
California strife

Much time alone
Call my middle son
Might rewatch Solaris
Taipei 101

55 years old
My beard now is white
Walk near the cemetery
Two green lights

Not an academic
Wish I was a shaman
Chicken Tikka Masala
And a little Ramen

                  India!