I was painting a portrait the other night,
    when I figured this out; so let me paint you a picture now.
See I’m a writer, and not a very good artist, and I’m overly clumsy
    and far too bulky for my own good.
I have a boxers’ hands to go with a boxers’ grip which is the worst
    way to grab a paint brush unless you want to tip over your paints.
And that’s exactly what I did.
I tipped over that tray thing with the little slots for all the different
   colors of paint to keep them separated.
They went tumbling to the floor and they all mixed together and
   became one, and there was no more white, no more purple, no
       more yellow or red.
There were no lines to color in or outside of cause the paint was
     everywhere and I left it to dry instead of calling it a
                      “mess that needs to be cleaned up.”
I gave it a chance to become its own thing.
And it didn’t.
It just remained sprawling on the floor.
But at LEAST it was given a chance.
And then I turned on the TV to see that cowboy has-been from Gran
     Torino talking about how this is a “***** generation” and how  
             everyone is too Politically Correct.
He said we used to not be afraid of words like '******' and '****'
    and we walked around proudly in our own neighborhoods,
         and I immediately turned that ******* off.
Not to ignore it, but because I couldn’t respond to it.
I’ve been screaming at the TV for 32 years now and have determined
     that either they can’t hear me or they just don’t give a ****.  
It may be both.
But I want to scream.
I want to tell him that people still aren’t afraid to use those Words; they just choose not to.
I want to tell him that they still walk around proudly in their own neighborhoods, and they are even more proud that he doesn't live here.
But all that’ll lead to,
is an Us vs. Them mentality,
which eventually leads to wars.
We can’t have a war.
Not based on this.
And there are people out there who want that, and there are a
   lot of them.
And they are using those words and they are walking those
      neighborhoods, and they are posting on Alt-Right Message Boards
           and talking about how the White Man is going extinct and how
                   they are the minority.
They white-wash phrases like “White Supremacist” to become
   “Racial Purists” and I realized that they just gave us the answer.
We need to spill the paint.
We need to fall in love with people of color.
Any color.
Every color.
We need to spill the paint and mix it together and make new colors.
And it’ll take a long time, but anything worth doing is worth doing
     right.
And there will be no more primary colors and secondary colors,
    there will only be people.
But its not enough to mix the colors, we have to clean up the act too.
We have to raise our children of all colors right.
We have to tell them that no color is better than another, and that you  
    can draw a painting with just one color, Because that IS a choice!
You can surround yourself with just one color, and only use just one
       color your entire life, but what kind of a life is that?
You walk down the street and the Roses are grey. And the trees are
     grey. And the grey men at the bar are hitting on grey women
          outside and the bartender is pouring grey goose for everyone
               trying to wash down the fact that something is definitely
                      wrong.
We need Red roses and green trees and black men with white women,
      and Asian women with white men, and everyone needs to just start
           mixing and loving, and loving to mix until there is nothing left to
                 stereotype.
Nothing left to minimize, undermine, or scrutinize.
And if we don’t do this soon,
I fear there may be nothing left to scrutinize at all.

.english colonialism used to be passive-aggressive, english post-colonialism is a strange dynamic of former colonial nations playing the endgame of colonialism with non-affiliated nations of the british empire (affiliated by trade anyway, although not based upon origins of the ruling elite's extending arm), there's a hot topic in england between the irish and the polish, the irish are provoking the polish into racism so someone else can look smug with a pakistani friend on the london tube.

you know the amount of pain i see writing my father's
invoices of manual labour with the irish *****
apparently running
the show protecting northern
irish outputs of poetry and cigarette smuggling -
keeping us migrants "in check"?
god the loathing,
i try to improvise each invoice
with an excess knowledge
of the english tongue to break through,
but my sole considering comforter
is still death,
**** this *******, i rather die
than see my father's eyes eye me
hurtful hopeful of seeing my "bright new life"
when i was nearly murdered by
an egyptian school-friend / childhood friend
and later told: boy you better pretend you're
mad... boy my ***, your father is just
an x-ray technician... go back
to the northern africa of your
pretending to be a semite and build
another pyramid... *******, **** all of this,
days of casual pretentious squeaky clean
non-offensive poetry are over...
gentlemen - let's broaden our minds... swear a little
take up oaths with truth...
we were born to down a pint of concrete before
ireland was born, rushing out of pubs
when the call was made: concrete has arrived!
run, run run run! break legs and whatnot,
because in an irish pub talking to a homeless
person in akimbo giving him a cigarette
is cause for argument with an irish girl
trying to get, familiar;
unlike the sword, a stick has two ends...
you can smack someone with it,
but then someone can rebel and grasp the same
stick and smack you with it, for a suckling
taste of a kiss in memory of reprimanding manners.

- and i do remember the good stuff coming
out of h'america...
    i once owned a copy of blue valentine
by tom waits on c.d.: scratched that record
from over-playing it...
found a vinyl copy in the shop today...
splashed out a staggering £20 on it...
lucky for me the mp3 record comes free...
     £20 is a lot?
       well... better that £20 which played
in the background as i finished off decorating
the kitchen...
   rage 2 deluxe edition for ps4 -
      £44.99... so sure... i splashed out...
          thank god i'm not a gamer...
with games it's like with movies...
   notably? vikings season 1...
     i thought i could watch it a second time...
couldn't...
   a bit of a hit and miss...
    with games and movies...
      when the narrative gets exhausted...
and you're still honing in on the narrative
whether a passive spectstor or the role player
in the game...
but investing in an album?
       background background...
and an almost infinite array of the comeos
against the record...
   one cameo decorating a kitchen
another cameo finishing the day off with
some cider on a windowsill...
   but once upon: that's what h'america was
about... united we stand,
divided we fall... blah blah...
           and it looks like that right now...
the cultural export zenith peaked and it isn't
coming back...
   not for a while at least...
now we only look at not the united
         but the balkanized states of europe...
the states pulling at each other:
where once there was a cohesive collective
      export of pure cancan h'americana...
tom waits' blue valentine...
                          now i'll am getting
"culturally" is a bunch of vlogger content...
export of problems,
existential qualms without support on
existential pillars from continental thought
of 20th century europe...
   19th century doesn't count:
   not even nietzsche does: but kierkegaard
doesn't.

what are those lyrics from that vomito *****
song enemy of the state?
we shall send you, in ever increasing number:
ships, planes, tanks, guns: that is your purpose
and, our pledge... (1941 state of the union speech
sample)

most americans are not aware that soon
the primary export of our national economy
won't be cars, or food, or microwaves.
instead we'll be exporting death.
instead will be exporting death.

   perhaps, once upon a time...
now the export is quiet different,
   at its cultural zenith of exported values...
it would seem h'america choked on
a bitter pill... h'america no longer provides
the sort of culture worth exporting,
notably in cinema in music...
                               in literature...

the behemoth lost all of its juggernaut
momentum... and stumbled into rehashing old
ideas... it's not plagiarizm as such:
more a plagiarizm ex per se...

norman davies: god's playground -
   1795 to the present:

the Belweder is a palace in Warsaw...
(belvedere: a beautiful view)
constructed in 1660 -
  the White House in Washington D.C.
constructed in circa 1796...
by god, what a similarity!

   polish emigration to the u.s.a.:
in social terms their educational and communal
organizations are less effective than those of
the ukranians,
   in political terms their problems
command less notice than those of the blacks,
chicans or amerindians...
in the vicious world of the american ethnic jungle,
the 'stupid and ignorant Pole' is a standard
stereotype... once the noble lord...
reasons no doubt exist: like the irish and
the sicilians... the greatest influx came from
Galicia containing a large number of
the 'wretched refuse': people so oppressed
by poverty and near-starvation:
supressed linguistically, religiously...
the instinct of mere survival...
accepted the most degrading forms of employment...
exploitation: 'industrial *******'...
they were the gangers of the great american
railway age...
a canadian textbook can be cited
(j. s. wordsworth, strangers within our gates,
toronto 1972):
'it is hard to think of the people of this
nationality other than in that vague class of
undesirable citizens' -
   very much like to today:
   to think of canadians being a people
beloning to the making of mankind -
    without the canadian concept of mankind
being: peoplekind...
even woodrow wilson (then) prof. at prince-ton
deemed the Poles to be 'inferior'.

- but who was to ever to keep grudges...
grand torino - the movie, starring and directed
by clint eastie-boy-sparking-wood...
waldermar kowalski... dumb pollack...
why do poles no integrate within a community
bias as such?
                   the proverb:
if you want to succeed within a framework
of immigration: steer away from your
fellow countrymen...

                     almost all other cultures that
come, but the host's nitty-picky:
oh look at our asian labradors...
why can't you lick our ***** like they can?
etc. one example out of the many...
some people, i guess: prefer to be in
the background...
post-colonial powers need tokens...
akin to a sadiq khan:
papa was an immigrant bus-driver -
quick step up from daddy being a bus driver
to the position of mayor of london...
browny points!

the english are smug like this:
you hear even today -
WE WON'T BE SORRY FOR OUR
FATHER'S AND FOREFATHER'S SINS...
not for our colonial past...
they say that consciously -
but subconsciously they are scoring
brownie points...
        i can't say they're doing this
unconsciously: since if they were:
there would be a unanimous concensus
and no: "diversity is our strength"
agenda...

             besides... you can't exactly
conquer an island...
the norman conquest of 1066? it wasn't really
a conquest: for a conquest to actually take
place you'd require the native population
to be displaced / replaced by the invading
force - akin to the saxon invasion...
'don't touch, their, women...
we don't breed with these people...
what sort of people would you think
that would breed? weak people... half people'
(king Cerdic from the film king arthur 2004)...
proof being?
when the normans invaded and "conquered"...
they simply replaced the ruling saxon elite...
hence? the domesday book...
the ruling elites were being replaced
and the new ruling elites wanted to have
an account of who they were going to rule...
it was less a conquest and more:
a change of guard... since...
            the locals were first investigated
and subsequently left to their own devices...
there was no conquest:
               as such...
                but you can get on with your
day-to-day life on an island with natural
fortifications (the ******* sea)...
and produce your little whizz-kids down
the years...
   but imagine being squeezed by:
prussia... russia, the ottomans,
                  the mongols...
                             the swedes...
                and subsequently by the austro-hungarians...
matka królów (the mother of kings),
i.e.: Elisabeth von Habsburg...

   in conclusion... oh to hell with the whole
"incel" label... you have to pay for something
in the end... why not skip the *******'s worth
of pleasantries: the dating masquerade
and not get into the nitty-gritty with a *******
in one smooth stroke of a count worth an hour?
no hard-on shyness that way...
no ****-teasing...
whatever is an erectile dysfunction outside
of the brothel... doesn't seem to bother
whittle wichy while in a brothel...
so go figure...
                and relating to the stories of incels...
hmm... maybe it's the fickle women...
last time i checked...
i picked up a thai bisexual in a park,
a random stranger...
                took her home,
some beer, some jazz...
                  ****** her in the garden...
        i don't even think it's the case of
"i can't get laid" with these incels...
     english women: nuns on the outside...
latex gimp suited **** black boot licking
*** fiends in the bedroom...
   the madonna-***** complex...
the only aspect of Freud that resonates with me...

you know what, never mind...
      i'm just happy i collect vinyls...
free mp3 copy to boot...
and instead of spending 40+ quid on a game
that will become exhausted after one sitting /
completion (these are not arcade games,
nor are they the "free" new wave of games,
the ones where you play "superior"
opponents with a handicap -
since you didn't pay any in-game updates,
patience is a virtue,
   and someone people invest real money
into these games, but are still **** at them,
plus, these new wave games never really end...
i'll be dead and i won't be able to finish them,
added bonus? there's no NPC dimension
to them, added strategy: with a complete loss
of narrative / story-telling, genius!)
plus... how much does a vinyl player cost?
you can get one for under 70 quid...
sometimes vinyl bargains: under a tenner...
this one though, for 20 quid...
1 vinyl worth 20 quid once every two months?
oh yeah... i really splashed out on this one!

woman is a grand idea though...
    there is so much of woman i would be able
to love, if only the practicality of woman
wouldn't be associated...
alas: reality bites...
                       regrets...
                                  aged 33 and i feel as if...
i have managed a good enough sample
where both sexes can coexist within the confines
of me entertaining them:
as if they were to never meet and "preserve"
the "fate" of "humanity"...
      i'm pretty sure there are plenty of people
who have been bullied into this trap
associated with the otherwise "intelligent"
dodo mentality...
                          besides, i'm about to find out,
whether or not, they sell liter bottles of whiskey...
using my braille tally:

            ⠁ ⠃ ⠇ ⠧ ⠷ (⠿)
            1  2  3   4  5  (6)
             a  b  l   v  à  (é)

                        from what i drank yesterday
for that lullaby... i'm starting to supect that:
what they label as a liter... is actually more -

    if after ⠷⠻ ⠷⠻ (i.e. 50ml  20x) i'm not left
with an empty bottle... well then i'm not left
with an empty bottle.

When I was little I would watch
Clint Eastwood on the tube,
Rowdy Yates from Rawhide
In black and white and crude.


He played a young man showing
All the attributes of youth,
With an exciting way about him
That burned with living truth.


Spontaneously cowboy
And fastidiously right,
He filled the part with action
And the character was tight.


He represented all the things
A small boy wants to be,
Young, bright and coiled to go
A special hero… Just for me.


Through the years I’ve tagged along
Watched him play the arts,
The action roles, the love story
And the recent wrinkly parts.


I’ve loved ‘em all and celebrate
The fifty years of fun
Of trailing after Eastwood
And his epochs in the sun.


Play Misty, Iwo Jima
***** Harry too,
Gran Torino, Million Dollar
Spaghetti westerns through
The Bridges and Rowdy Yates
The common touch in all,
For every day people
In an every way call.


Hero’s come and hero’s go
Some fade away to die
Thank God professionals like Clint Eastwood
Just keep reaching for the sky.

My thanks Old Son.....for a Great Journey!


Marshalg@the Gate
Mangere Bridge
New Zealand
4th February 2009

.no problem about the Polacks, the Romanians or the Bulgarians... no problem... the Polacks will return to a Clint Eastwood mentality borrowed from Gran Torino... thank god the Polacks are leaving these lands... but... you can always have your Commonwealth ****-gang! so... thumbs up! both parties win!

well, just another turn of
the century dynamics,
what else is / isn't to be expect?

the european provides
the wind,
the african provides
the drums...

****...
         the asians provide the
underlying bass notes?

that's not going to work...

           i can't seem to spot
more colors on the piano
other than black, and white...

biG problem...
              
    slaves? what slaves?
the African saved the Europeans
from violins, cellos,
         and entombed themselves
in brass...
   horns, saxophones... you name it...
what slaves?

     so... if the narrative of
the world history, makes its crucible...
on the focus of the first man,
originating in Africa...

   personally? as the last man...
the last in the lineage of Shem
   Abel and Cain...
              
                   if i am supposed to play
the role of the last man,
and the man...
that's also supposed to become extinct...

i'm not liking it...
    i'll just drink my blackbeard shake
of *** & coke...
    and...
this is the part where i add:

   now scuttle along... like the good
vermin that you are;
just don't touch my fox pet
on the way out...
no one touches Rommel.

He thumb is green
He grows a lot.
Wether it's in age or flowers
Or weeding pots.
His dog is about as as gray as he
And they shuffle around outside
Shuffling.
He keeps his time well to himself.
No use for material wealth.
Keeps up his ride
Each Saturday at noon
Goes to church every Sunday with his wife
How cute.
Picks out the litter outside my porch
With his quiet little stroll and cane
While I smoke and watch.
We had a conversation about music once
About Simon and Garfunkel, Skeeter Davis, and the Beatles.
He has some ink on his arms from youth
Back when he was fighting wars too.
Military vet
I know cause his wife likes to brag.
He's always asking how my day was met.
And I asking to help
To carry his bags back to his house.
No thanks, I'm fine.
You're so kind to ask.
You don't hear those kind of words from my generation class.
I saw his kids visit only once.
Like gran Torino, he just tolerates the bunch.
Get off my lawn!
With a shotgun in hand.
He'd be so badass had he done that, man.
Always first with his helping hands
Trying to spruce up the surrounding land.
Maybe I would too if he
Showed me how to plant some seed.
My garden is imaginary
But real flowers grow on his side of the street.
The elderly gent in 608
Is someone I look for on a daily rate.
I wrote of him because he's entitled to
Being heard of and remembered too.
But don't tell him you heard it from the chick who lives in 702.

Those days recall less colors
and even less sense
With longer hair like Jackson Browne,
Pensively reeling in half rhymed ballads
walkin’ like Dylan and shredding our voices
like Springsteen.
“walkin’ real loud…”

When poets sang and singers
Listened, from a freight car door
Waiting on an old white fence
Anything that made an album cover.

My crew was meticulously unkempt,
one day shy of a much needed shampoo
but okay -
we were just 'okay' then.
...Surely for another day.

Our moms were old with
thick rimmed glasses and smoked
and our fathers,
they were smoking men too
wearing two shades of gray
tucked in all the way… around
And around, my dad and I went.

We spoke with twisted lips
Groomed our eyes and looked out
From behind narrow poles
and ***** brick walls
That gave, what we knew of our souls,
This, sorta clandestine refuge.

And our pockets
Were empty, our wallets -
were empty .
Except a beer cap and a phone number,
Scribbled and torn from the corner of
a Houghton Mifflin textbook.
“I’ll call her when I get home.”
Let’s go home.

Sitting on the hood of my Torino
I scanned the streets, smelled the tar
Of our last summers burning.

These girls hugged their diaries to their chest
and we’d gaze
we’d gaze through
Sunlit dust and dandelion fairies
eager to unbutton their secret stories about us,
always about us,
and our eyes made such nimble fingers.

We were outward bound on inward glory...
always thinking about love
hoping on plans that’ll get us "laid" by
a girl who wears daisies in her hair.

Big sweet flowers for the butterflies
Stirring in our stomachs
Fluttering to land softly at the entrance
of her big – sweet - flower.
My generation loved love.

It broke and with it
me,
things do and then we mend
if
time kneels before the needy
and if
the clock turns slowly on the hour
otherwise
we stay broken,

insights into the faraway
looks that stay as scars fade and
beds made to be undressed in
hot flushes
everything rushes by so fast
the moments never last
the past drags us down,

if we're really lucky we disconnect
don't feel the pain
even when it happens again and again

I'm hanging on and only to see where
it all went wrong,
where I broke in two
these are the things we do
when
we don't know.

two days of constipation
and i'm like...

      never have i made
so much pornographic sounds
in my life:
attempting
to ease out a ****...

like any good german would:
i stand up
peer into the "wishing well"
of the toilet -
yes, trousers pulled down,
socks and slippers intact
on my feet...

          and i was immediately
reminded...
   you know that german
toilets have this...
      curve,
  where a **** is sort of presented
on a plate for inspection,
before it is lost: out of sight
in the english variety...
of: da boamb iz zee dropped...
shelf...

i would never think
of ****** jesus
to be an ukranian band...
i was thinking: hell...
american mid-west...
gran torino -esque...
because everything that
clint eastwood says
is cool,
    like the lego batman...
and i will not look
up the name of the voice-actor
and i will not side
with michael buffer...

       anthony hopkins...
or... alan rickman...
**** me... jeremy irons...
or j. e. jones...

anyway, back on the topic of
               scheiß...
and last time i checked
the worth of a book
was best appreciated
on the toilet: by many a man...
might as well fathom
the toilet in written form...

michael palin!
that's the guy... who did a pseudo
martin portillo
       when touring the danube...
so yeah: no trains...
but german toilets...
very much of what
Poland's culture also gives
is... the shelf...
so you can inspect your
****...

ah: but this isn't
a tabloid newspaper,
after all...
      why wouldn't i compensate
for the intricacies
of homosexual poetics
with an ode to:
the pleasures of taking
a ****...

rightly so: i can't imagine
a pleasure from anything
going into that hole -
due to all the pleasure
of something coming out of it...

2 days worth of constipation...
and i'm "thinking"
like a peter griffin:
i did eat something...
so something must come out...

no good...
3rd day in and nothing is
coming out,
and i'm getting worried...
headaches....
hot sweats...
       so i had to resort
to asking my mother for
some laxatives...
oh... she's a listed
pharmacy library...

   bad back,
          surgery,
and i just listen
to what being pregnant
did to her...
   how i am to blame
for her bad back...

but i get the laxatives...
30ml of a sickly sweet
liquid...
  and i play the waiting
game...
2 hours later...
blitzkireg!

     but **** me,
i never expected what
came after...
namely 3 hours worth
of an orchestra
from a stamped on
trumpet's worth of my ***...

it's felt like:
inflating the *******
hindenburg
or... competing with a dairy farm!

whatever people get off
on...
   i love simple pleasures...
redneck blatancy...
that ****'s just pure:
                               necessary;

sure, i could think of
"low-eve"
   and all that... posturing
designed for psychopaths...
  i'm one brick short
from finishing off the labyrinth
of thought
where my ego is
the minotaur...
  i.e. closing myself in...

i did lie...
   yes... i only wanted to read
a marquis de sade
        novel, in physical
copy, on the London tube...
when doing some roofing
  for a housing project
   at... Colindale...
so i'd be inspected by
a group of teenage girls
giggling at the cover
with a ****...
                 hoping some smart
*** would say
to the girls...
   juliette is not exactly
*****...
   (******?
         his best work)...
   wanted...
   whatever the hell that means...
how i managed
to get an *******
from reading the words...

what is still most memorable
comes from
the biography of the man...
books to be read
with one hand -
    with regards to
the private library of his uncle...

but i'll take my pleasures
elsewhere...
   who would have thought...
but there's a first time for
everything...
   came zee scheiße
  (scheiß, i.e. missing e implies
****, not ****,
started watching das boot...
those germans...
they talk so quickly!)
  but i didn't expect for
the orchestra of farts...
    constipated...
yes... but also very much bloated...
almost 3 days of
dis-ease (i once said that,
beer, old man in tow:
yes, the negation of ease...
astounded wide-eyed
            old man in tow)...

by now i just figured:
does it even matter?
            i can't do an honest
album review...
too many adjectives...
film reviews?
   i prefer to stash that
**** in secret...
           book reviews?
       does that even matter,
should it?
          i spent a decent
month on Sienkiewicz's
3 volume potop...
yes, and i have seen
the film...
            not that i'm
a slow reader...
   but...
        review it?
     how about...
   it's a cognitive tattoo
imprinted on me...
          like certain dates...
1986...
or cities: Chernobyl, disaster,
effects were seen
in Poland...
   strips of:
         radioactive winds
that passed...
level:
    10 metres of burnt
autumnal looking trees
in summer...
   10 metres of summer
         trees: green as envy...

whatever this is...
is what it is...
    as much a case of clenching
fists and attempting
to bark into a punching-bag...
as bashing
finger-tips into
a keyboard...

     because...
   i can never exhaust the reel
of the persistent,
constant blank
waiting at the tip
of the just below
when i figured:

   poetry?
       sure...
                i sometimes end up
myopic
      when having to strain
myself for a literary
paragraph...

                i'll do it...
    but i hate to invest in reading
to also make my feel
as if i have coincided with
doing something meaningful...

poetry: airy-fairy... whatever...
serious literature
and the cluster-****
of the paragraph.

Do you remember those seasons in the sun? Carefree days of laughter and fun..
Remember seeing Star Wars and Close Encounters with a soundtrack by ABBA The Bee Gees and Boney M.

Do you remember playing football in the park. Staying out riding bikes until dark. Remember Kevin Keegan, Bjorn Borg and James Hunt. Iconic images of Concorde's first transatlantic flight.

Do you remember watching Space 1999,  Planet of the Apes and Dr Who from behind the sofa. Remember space hoppers and friendly village coppers. Endless lazy summer days soaking up the suns rays.

Do you remember Steve Austin, the Bionic Man. Getting a 99 with a flake from the ice cream van. Remember how cool were Starsky and Hutch and wanting a red Ford Torino.

I remember those seasons in the sun. I remember carefree days of laughter and fun.40 something years ago, where did the time go?

That little boy who cheered when the Death Star exploded, hid from the Daleks and danced to Rasputin and Ma Barker still lives within my memory and in my heart.

can't help but see a somali smile
whenever thinking about god,
          an ethopian heart,
            and the feet of an englishman...
the left arm of the french,
       and the right of the russian...
tongue of an american,
   and the feet of an argentinian...
others get the nibbles
         on this crude pseudo-fantasy...
a reserve of any notable
examples of life with the chinese,
          and culinary antics
                       of the blue indians...
and then i think back to
an "identity"
                   of my own, pauper-kin...
translated into american
  as the gran torino:
                              ****-wit ******
in the form of clint eastwood...
sikh generosity,
  turkish speciality in giving
man the finest barbers...
         and the arabs for their prayer...
mind you:
         two days spent without
speaking a sentence in my immediate
vicinity,
      and you circuit
a numbing sensation...
                             to encompass more
trojan horse than
                a sponges' worth of a brain
comparative...
                only yesterday
the day was half awake, and half asleep...
   and i minded both
the insomniac, and the shadow,
trying to listen in on sparrows
          during the shortest night
                     encompassed by a june
on the english isles...
            typically within the confines
of: just shy of 4a.m.,
               but i still can't fathom
the blank slate, blank canvas *******
around with a set of rules
in the domain of grammar...
              not exactly sure why this bothers
me, but, then again:
   maybe it doesn't...
               there's always a chance
that i'm writing spew,
        out-dated
                                      concerns...
up to: and more importantly:
               true... till the day of my parting
is made official...
         between a caribbean concept of
lazy, and the mediterranean equivalent?
        hardly a choice...
                      it's not exactly true
that i fell asleep out in the open
     in a kenyan resort translating
night back into day,
      but that someone managed to drink
the brandy left just above my head
on a table...
                   i'm guessing
                  a macaque stole it from me...
    hard to exactly translate certains
animals in the: wild, wide open...
                                         baboon thieves?
lined up with
                             shiny red butts
                             like celebratory ulcers?!
can't exactly write about
     a macaques: fear-face either...
         you have to see it to "believe" it...
ooh! as a word is hardly
                        a snapshot of the reality...
which is enough to confine
you, happily, to a balcony,
               finding shade,
               as the hobbit monkeys
                tire you with their presence:
            in a much ado fashion
               munching on little bags
of saccharine... can't remember:
                          could have been sugar...
a comparison with people became
the last thing in my mind...
          clearly kenya gave me
         anything but an exchange
of cultures...
                        what sort of european
whitey would not act out
      preserving the little time consisting
of 2 weeks among other tourists,
   and not attempt to spend the time with
actual, authentic, monkeys without
the european caging of them?
    ever shared a balcony with a macaque?
not exactly petting a bonsai feline...
        but i'll admit:
            an animal as a concise tool...
    a labrador
              to walk the shadow of the teasing blind...
the alsatian
         and how sensible the provoked
bark...
              a rottweiler: which is,
actually my fetish in terms of ownership...
     addict sniffer dogs at
airports:
           sniff a line: can't keep 'em
on a leash for much longer...
                  ever shared a balcony with
a macaque...
    the bonsai representation of
some far removed cousin of a past
                  consisting with the current you?
black priv.,
             there's nothing else quiet
like it...
                it's like the complete pointlessness
of needing a mirror,
or a narcissus mythology...
     furry golf ball of
           moment...
                 man and the death of time,
and monkey: with time's birth...
and yet the two behind a glue factory
of not being completely detached...
maybe i'm reading too much into
this...
               as any memory:
    cinema cameo...
                     like the one in edinburgh...
   i have had too many
cognitive faculties erode before my eyes,
to "suddenly"
      allow memory to be
crippled,                 untouched,
                            "unfathomable"...
                               "off-limits*...

which springs to mind
  the first time i've learned of schizophrenia;
that pale-shade of a woman
who phoned me up and started
screaming about auditory-hallucinations...

i was on a roof of the scottish widows'
HQ tiling the concrete with
water-proof insulation...
             what was i supposed to answer?!
then it crept up on me...
         can mental illness take the form
of a virus?
              evidently...
           like any good idea can spread,
uninhibited...
                  an illness of such "abstract"
nature
                      can become contagious...

here?
     us, lepers, poets:
    with solid handshakes of a waggling
tongue,
               nothing more.

perhaps out of curiosity,
                          perhaps out of spite...        
              
i'm still to fathom the dichotomy-exit-point
from a cartesian merger (dualism)...
                     hence no adjective...
but it's there...
               but i'm hardly going
to not consider a physical reality of
         a cognitive dissonance
                       congregation-synonym...

  there's hardly a parallel...
              perhaps a misappropriation
of timing:
        but certainly a revealing crux,
later a pivot,
        subsequently a sine / cosine libra
dynamic.            

that humming sensation,
    of a breath pushed through
pursed lips
        allowing a vibration...
                  a vibration that's also akin
to being tickled...
      
   had i but two eyes in my mouth
to see with,
   and know, what i have two tongues
to peer with, lodged in
my eye-sockets.