They said they wanted to take the molars of
Those fleeing danger that they had escaped
By the skin of
Then leave the reward of sanctuary beneath their pillow whilst they slept
As if they weren't having trouble enough already
With where to rest their weary heads

They said the rewards were many
And wanted to make completely certain
They weren’t being too generous
Because giving gifts gives rise to greed
So they decided to take the teeth
And ensure those safety seekers
Knew exactly what being bitten means

And those who sought for something more?
Those bitten by these charitable actions as much by war
Their wounds didn't heal
And they found sores on weary feet
To find they had grown hungry mouths there too
The shoes that ate the distance beneath their step
Yielding bite marks as footprints and yet

They stored safety as a promise
In between records and held up blue plaques aloft
That said "I was not born here on this date
But I belong here" and I've history and a home to make
But for all the shiny pennies that they saved up in a jar
The princess dentists could still feel each
Generous donation, milky beneath their mattress

And each asylum seeker kept them up
And we clean teethed few, who always knew to brush
For three minutes before bed
Lucky by grace of birth, seas and a few miles more
Looked at these dentists questioning
but they shook their head
Warned us of the toothache of their seeming sweetness
So tell us about dental hygiene
how to floss lies from our gums
or else wait for all our teeth to fall out
Have them taken from beneath our pillows
Where  we had gracefully saved them like we were told to
Constructed into fortresses
Utilized the tooth extraction cotton buds
as comforting ear plugs and pulled  the wool over our eyes

Let’s wait until our retirement
Till we realise the Toothfairy wants our bones
Not just our molars
and we pushed away those who only needed
The chance of rest and the chance of somewhere
new and safe to show us how to smile
So brush your teeth tonight
And be thankful
you will never know that those who turn away from you
Will do so, because your breath
Still stinks of all the **** you so readily eat.

Once upon a time there was a girl
who didn’t know what she wanted
(I don’t think any of us do)
you have to convince me
you are what I want
need
will die without
because if you can’t
I’ll just wait
wait to get swept off my feet
by somebody else

Little girls grow up believing
that magic is real
but it’s all just smoke and mirrors
we know Santa isn’t real
neither is the Easter Bunny
or the Toothfairy
but Prince Charming...
Prince Charming is real
somewhere deep down
I believe
my “soulmate” is out there
searching for me
as hopeful as I am searching for him

Is it a curse
haunting
creating false words
and false scenarios
that will never come true?
Hollywood says otherwise
if my life were a movie
you’d call me beautiful
write me songs
never let go
doubt overwhelming
but not giving up

Do angels have to cry
To let rain pour from the sky?
Would unicorns hang round the bend
When rainbows have to end?

Where could be the *** of gold
If the leprechaun turns cold?
Will the Toothfairy check my bed
If I hide my sweet tooth instead?

Will Mr. Sandman catch my dreams
If there's nightmare at the seams?
Would the Easter be the same
Without that egg-hunting game?

Would mermaids lose their tail
If there are no lands left to sail?
Or would Humpty Dumpty fall
To a foolish heart's call?

Will Alice lose her way
If Wonderland turns grey?
Would Jack Frost cast a snow
If there's no love left to grow?

you know why the vikings did not care to
****, while they pillaged the conquered women?
why? well... let us not mingle war with
the melodramaticism of women screaming:
help! seems pretty logical, in sentencing these
women into a state of awkwardness -
they they be barren, by not being interacted
with... imagine neither viking,
or saxon plunging his grand dipper into
their fleshy abode...
       who've become doubly scarred
by their abode, with both earth and woman
turned to abandonment -
come the germanic brutes,
         and the natives with:
  wishes laid upon the stone,
and the iron lodged in it
we are but the deciders of our destiny -
and lackluster of the destiny unfulfilled -
made siamese with an ad infinitum decision
making, being curbed, shortened by
the year of chasing a wolf's mane,
while the fox continued his rhapsody of
thieving schemes!

- ibi est vitae, tantum in
    id est qui vita -
utrum in vivo -
                 vel in cogitatio -

danke spielzeung - vielen danke...
     spielzeuge?
*marienburg und auschwitz!
ja, danke!
    das ist gut abschreckend!
40 days in the desert, deutsche tattoo
on poland is like saying:
            up yours, soviets!

only a man will have a personal
library like a graveyard -
the ****** just reads books by dead
people...
   only women seem to read books by
people who are alive,
and their contemporaries...
men do not have that sort of
"audacity"...
like most men, i am no *****
of sortier eventualities -

which began in the form of VI / XIV -
heidegger...
   i don't write to forget reality,
rather? to immerse myself in it...

you know how roman to greek to
roman to greek works?

  simple, roman letters are sing-along
castrato "morse code"...
greeks? they named theirs...

  αλφα is a noun...
so?
   so what?
you have to extract the prefix
from the noun...

       you have to turn αλφα into α-,
while λαμβδα into, simply λ-...

i don't write to forget reality,
  i don't write to forget: rather?
to immerse myself in it.

people read to immerse if not to simply
forget themselves,
to stare into the cloudy mirror of
a narcissus disguised,
i simply can't write mirror-prose,
you will not see a welcoming housewife
minotaur in my prosaic labyrinth
of what is best ascribed as "poetry";

what comes is an etymological
present, apparent self-revealing sloth
of history, that has rested upon
too many events, and so few
self-revealing factoid impressions...
as memes are to genes,
so too factoids are to facts...
      so few mentioned,
   as to assert the groundwork of sinai.

hence the castrato song -
  struggles with silencing the grief -
as of those once bound to a harem -
these new castrated - to the grief -
the "benevolent" man chose
a third of ownership to a harem -
with one third to secrecy -
and the last third to paedophilic "intuition" -
with the lies being his ******...
and not even 0.33 to a worship of
music;

      it's almost a shame, using the guillotine
on such people:
   and not 20+ blows on the neck
of ****** mary, with a blunt axe;
god, give me a nibbled-off-clean leg
of lamb, to chop these *******' heads off:
then again i don't want to chop these heads
off! i want to knuckle them off
with a dozen or so plum sores,
so they feel arthritis momentarily,
while strapped to a, ******* wheelchair!

Searching for Santa

I searched for Santa
In the skies
All I saw
Was the stars

I looked
For a Bunny
During Easter
I found
Out they laid
No eggs

The Toothfairy
Told me
She put money
Under my pillow
But
My mother
Kissed me goodnight

Love
Is the only thing
I need
On valentines day
**** a valentine

Why do they
Always try to get me
To spend money?

I work hardest on Sunday
And never take
A day off
I give
More than ten percent
To those I love
And not the church

I imagine
You don't have to
Spend money
To make believe.

I searched for Santa
In the skies
All I saw
Was the stars

I looked
For a Bunny
During Easter
I Found
Out they layed
No eggs

The toothfairy
Tells me
She put money
Under my pillow
But
My mother
Kissed me goodnight

Love
Is the only thing
I need
On valentines day
**** a valentine

Why do they
Always try to get me
To spend money?

I work hardest on Sunday
And never take
A day off
I give
More than ten percent
To those I love
And not the church

I imagine
You don't have to
Spend money
To make believe.

what i've learned once treading on this path of the writing endeavour: i've become more of a stranger to myself, and a friend unto strangers; perplexing as it sounds, it nonetheless is the foremost acquaintance in experiencing, and fiddling with the medium.

which is, i dare say, so anti-socratic -
but the socratic method is all talk -
writing? hardly the reason to designate
a knowledge of a self -
primarily? a method of unknowing -
or, should i say: the nautical perspective
of searching unseen & unheard of sights -
perhaps even a 5 blind men's guess
at an elephant, or quiet simply:
mining; imagine, to the distaste of the local,
how a "posh" accent sounds in
essex, the land of dubious tongue-effigies...
how the english language *in totalis
looks like a disfigured tongue sculpture,
but if i were a native: there would be
no outsider ref. to cling to with
crab-like pincers,
                  or bullterrier jawline grip;
first you break the spirits, then you
settle on sniffing crushed ivory.
  and yes, i'll always think of the nigerian
chinua achebe calling joseph conrad
a "****** racist" - by now i'm past being
concerned being called out in some bogus,
if not macabre bingo game...
     that "label" is worth to me as much as
a hello, my name is... badge -
there's no honour in it -
           then again, i think about a white man
being racist over the spilled-beans of
looking at an albino... esp. one with an afro...
i have this memory, you see,
this mongrel of a polish girl in school,
art class, and she mentioned something
that still sticks to me like a leech...
no, not the similarity of south asian and african
noses, with the flattened lateral cartilage,
say any african and the malaysians...
this ***** dug deep...
    she said: oh, these poles don't have the perfect
african bone sculpture of the africans,
do they? what she meant, and yes, i agree,
was the not-so-protruding occipital -
yes, it's not as well "formed" as other skulls,
i guess that just adds to the pressure of
whatever the back of the brain is intended
for... a deformity? don't know -
                           what does that matter?
but these early quasimodo implants of perception
i.e. akin to the toothfairy / red dragon
start to bug you after a while -
      what's imperfect is celebrated -
and what's almost perfect: well -
that just goes into the dumpster -
   a pile of hot ****, a feast for fly dump of
concentrated maggot(s).
            which coincides with another thing -
i can stomach german existentialism,
   i can stomach the pish-poor french version
(compared with the richness of the russian
novel)...
i can stomach swedish cinematic take on
existentialism...
             what i can't stand is the english version,
i.e. primarily the aversion to the already
stated versions...
       english existentialism has become
a desperate cry - to me english existentialism
is not fit for conversation,
   it's not lecture and it's most certainly not
cafe talk, there is no: in the time & in the space
occupied...
                 english existentialism is
   non tempus non locus - sure, a precursor of
philosophy, but also the same mouth that
bites into a chicken bone with gums, but no teeth!
to me, what i hear is an existential blackmail,
   and the skipping rope chaos of moving from
the three prime pillars in the anglophone world:
evolutionary biology, the big bang and
(depending where you are): either the magna carta
or the declaration of independence;
   me? my universe began yesterday,
it will end today, and will begin once more tomorrow,
heri, nunc, cras...
            yesterday, today, tomorrow;
and frankly, i'll settle for that,
  but i'll also settle for akin to voltaire's observation
that the english are a nation of shopkeepers...
sure... and they're also the most ardent
naturalists.
              as we know french love pastry dough,
the italians love pasta, and the germans love metal;
further east it's ***** baby, *****.
    - a pole and a hungarian:
  bracia, do kieliszka, i szabelki (brothers,
  to a glass and to a saber).
              besides that?
(look, i have to make this quick, i've got
a mushroom soup going, but i'm missing white wine,
parsley and double cream for the main course
of mustard chicken - sarekpsa, dijon &
  bavarian mustards) -
                      and further will a kettle or
a stuffed toy travel from china to anywhere in
the western world, than a western idea
to china...
     there are limitations on the export & import
of ideas...
              esp. those that have no ethno-centric
"importance", rather an ethno-centric
  trans-literary impotence...
                   sometimes language can't be managed
by a translation that's global / universal -
sometimes the black & white really does only
sink to the depth of skin...
     after all: a white psyche is not a black psyche...
there is no universally robust uniformity of
a psyche in either jungian or freudian sentiments,
black music i can adore above classical,
but i have, perhaps only one or two books by
a black author...
  will alexander & gil scott heron...
       and that's about it...
      hey, same ****, different cover elsewhere...
then again i double up on perplexity -
  if this medium is the undifferentiated balance
of extremes i.e. white in all and black in lack -
        what the hell could possibly be deemed
"racist" - notably the denial of one's nationalistic
struggle with the hindsight of that
current year, under either a tsar or a tsarina in
1857? and to think i loved a russian woman
once...                                    once is enough.

so, i was waiting for this one for several
days,
   dribbling - if that's the best
to express: anticipation...

            and...
                   thank **** i brought with me
some left-over ***,
and some whiskey...
  because... if those weren't handy...
i would start thinking:

  this is a horror movie...
or an art gallery?

         in question? the neon demon...
sure, sure,
i've hear snippets from the critics,
i've heard the soundtrack,
what could be bad about
a movie with such a hypnotic
soundtrack?

   oh... right... the movie itself...
ten minutes later,
after i have watched it...
and...
             where was the horror...
you know, the stereotypical
horror of a zombie-esque
male 6ft+ protagonist,
hooded, walking alone
in either the woods
or the out-suburbs...

         oh, right...
that's me day to day,
day to night...
          
    i've seen the face of being
astouded by horror...
me, turning into a walk
down
a low lit alley,
and an old man...
200 metres away,
spotting me, and cowering,
to give me a pass so that
both our bulks of flesh
would fit into the conscrition
of a pathway...

      200 metres away,
and the ****** still saw me...
let me tell you,
it would have been
twice as creepier
if i just bowed
and implied: you first,
kind sir...

the neon demon... hmm...
fun film...
but is it really worth being
labelled horror, by genre,
and nothing short of:
     "risque"...
     i mean...
          art nouveau...
****... what's the other term
for it?
      (tick-tock-tick-tock): ah!
avant-garde
  albeit mingling with still-life
painting...
   sure, sure,
  i loved all the angles...
and the... colours...
  but... maybe it was the last
remaing dosage of ***,
or the extra whiskey that came
later...
       i'd prefer horror
to be in allingement to
1970s slasher movies...
  where i'd... panic! and no disco...

once again,
a movie that... became overpowered
by the soundtrack...
           come on...
julian winding with the song...
the demon dance...
and the poverty's worth
of a the meagre scraps of the movie...
hey... ooh... ooh...
look at me... listening
to the song in full, solo...

and... what a circus of thoughts
i have to accompany me with...
like...
this example...
   i must be living in some
alternative universe...

just today,
i was walking to my Iraqi Pirate
shopkeeper "fwend"...
listening to some cheap-***
babylonian bongo-bongo
music...

           and just ahead of me...
5 starlings...
which basically implies
5 english girls geared up,
and ready to hit the small town,
with dreams of L.A....
   pristine figures...
cat-walk models...
don't you ever find that
cat-walk models can implant
in you a thought-virus
making you overtly conscious
of how you walk?

   anyway... what time and day
and month is it?
oh...
                 half-term...
    so what i wtinessed was...
a bunch of 16 year olds
(hopefully)
   walking to the bus-stop
from a pre-drinks session
in their council houses...

          i'm too awkward...
big frame, easily spotted...
    and that's prior to watching
the movie...
   hmm...

  you know the one thought
running through my 'ed
when watching the neon demon...
now i love animals...
but seeing what people do
to other people?
    can someone, please(!)
give me an apron and send me
to the slaughterhouse?!
  the whole affair
just took my mind off
(if ever) advocating for
veganism...
              
           all that "excess" furr...
perfected pork chops...
***** of beef...
          and... the fashion industry's
underbelly...
heavenly standards
it would seem:
the fatter the pig...
        the prettier the inverted
Blakean painting
of the great dragon
and the woman dressed in
the sun...
   as... made a fetish from...
by?
                   ralph feans: toothfairy.

one ******* month spent
visiting my grandparents
in Poland,
and here i am,
a month later, upon my return,
just... so, so, so so eager
to welcome back this
cluster-**** of vestern
modernity!

     but those girls?
            those essex girls...
it's... late... february...
and they're out there, tonight,
wearing nothing but
skimp clothing,
   yeah... back in the 1960s...
mid-winter...
   the mini-skirts were
all but rave...
   i'm huddling in a polysterene
hoodie...
gloves...
and they're "out-there"
             donning raw flesh...

like i said, alternative universe...
i think i was told this
was going to be a horror movie...
dunno...
   i look at myself in
the mirror and i see a horror movie...
the hell did i just watch?

  it wasn't horror...
       in the classical concept
of a horror movie...
there are instances in a film...
where you hush the noise
down...
         because the images
are less scary
than the sound beneath them...
this ******* movie?
every time some music
became prominent
i decided to reign the volume
up...

         rare, but it happens...
when a movie is overpowered
by a soundtrack...
        n'ah... this wasn't horror...
it was art...
i give you that...
    that someone being
the director must have really
studied
        edward hopper
     and david hockney...
someone fused them together...
dimmed the colour in david hockney
and made emphasis of angle
           in edward hopper...
of the former and both the latter...
i just love the quote:
  'i just like to capture light...'
first ******* painter to say so...
by any standards of a stretched
imagination...

         me? critic?
              yeah... by way of:
             music was over-powering...
dialogue was... scraps...
         and... compared
to a latex mask...
     those californian models
are supposed to scare me
with their: to become generic
beauty standards equivalent to e.t.?
yeah... i was petrified...

                it's like those people
in tech are trying to avert
    interacting with...
                less robot, more flesh...
but more robot in the end...
  i.e.
        no flesh, all robot...
      but more human in the end...

oi oi chaps! hopes this helps
your algorithms studying
   whatever this will end being...
necrophilia of a desairologist..
seriously?
   that's the zenith?

        i heard that the one from
the city i was born in...
used to play poker with them!

  ah... because nothing that's
human can ever be alien to us...
can it?
                if that's not the case...
then no wonder...
all those poor eleanor rigby
types...
        suffocating in
    a beauty that's no more than
a labyrinth
              of assembled shards
that could never resemble
  the mild discomfort of, ugly,
sedated by the feeling of
an armchair...
             of all the prostitutes
i've ever been with:
   armchair beauties...
       middle-aged... chub...
but beauty that could be made...
mandible;

to add:
     reciproated responsibility...
condoms were in full play...
     not like this russian teenager...
she the cage, me the ******* sparrow...
just because:
that's how you translate emotions...
to a reciprocated zenith...
        no no, no thank you...
i'm better off with a *******
for an hour...
than with a starved russian teen
who thinks it best
to lie about contraception...
   i already mentioned this before...
year later...
   so... her grandmother was
her mother...
   her mother was her sister...
her father was her mother's boyfriend...
and her uncle was her brother...

     see what being dipped
in a lake of naivety does to you?
me... in america...
ha ha... ha ha ha ha!
it's one thing to have visited
russia...
          that pile of croissants?
no thank you...
   it's enough to have to deal
with whittle miss morbid England.

Theres allot of things that I wanted to be lie.
And theres allot of things I wanted to be the truth.

Like the day you told me.
"I wont leave you"
I wanted that to be true.
Or
When they said "everything gonna be fine"
Even when they told me about the toothfairy, the easterbunny, santa or even the grinch.
I wanted them to be all true.

Yet they always tell lies
To somehow make us feel okay.
But in the end we will realized that everything was a lie.

But I wanted allot of things to be a lie.

•Anxiety
•Depression
•prejudice
•sadness

I wanted them to be a lie because Im tired of lying and hiding the truth.

Im tired of saying "I'm Okay"
Im tired of saying "Good Morning , Day, or Night"
Im tired of showing a smile that only hides whats inside.

I want a time
Where my lies will be seen as lies and the truth may be seen.