Anxiety - tells me that it's all my fault. It fills my chest and stomach with a sick, sweet bile that I'm unable to *****. It tells me I'm sick, but never sick enough. That I deserve to be miserable because I am a liar and a sinner and a *****.

Anxiety - looks like being late for work everyday. Being constantly distracted, overworked, underperforming.  Anxiety is quiet in the room but loud in my ears. I'm frozen in sickness but I cannot stop moving.

no, today it wasn't Danielle, it was... Denise... she's the cousin of Mona... Mona is away in Romania... this plump plum of a beauty... i've been with pretty much all of them... i'll be running out of girls to **** in this brothel... i'll need to find myself a new one... today it was Denise... my god... love at first sight... ol' raven hair very much in the vein of Khadra... eh... Turkish, Romanian, Turkish-Romanian, Romanian-Turkish... she told me she had gypsy blood in her... my god... i go: WILD when it comes to Roma girls... i don't understand ******... why he figured: only the steel-blue-eyed blondes are the best thing going... well... they are... if you start diluting black boy genes with white blonde girls... i look at black men and don't have to wonder why white girls might find them attractive... it's a bit of a shame that i don't find black women as attractive as white women finding black men attractive... call me crazy but it's nearly impossible for me to find an attractive black girl: attractive i.e. to my liking... but i understand the interracial aspect of white girls... i need some dilution... after a second generation of interracial breeding either white or black will pop out... but second generation? what neo-Egyptian copper-necks are... very curious... so it was Denise the Gypsy today... it was Marie the other day when i was underperforming... Louise, Sandra...**** knows: it might as well have been a Casandra... i don't care...

some men put forward the question: is the lemon worth
the squeeze?
oh my god... is it?! Denise was your typical woman...
some parts of her body better than the others...
just like your atypical man...
her ******* were sagging... tiny little creatures...
but her ***?
once a year i admire horses... the assess of horses:
just before the Grand National...
that *** turned me on like a blonde *******
a Hindu doing that: ******* in light-bulbs dance...
oh hell yes...
the lemon is definitely worth the squeeze...
any Roman ******* the "menu" is me being brain-frozen
or are least brain-fried...
there's nothing better than coming from a shift
having stopped over at a brothel for a good ****...
you relax... you: sigh you ah!
mind you... it was a stressful shift at the Wembley
stadium today...
i had to intervene with these 40+ year old "dudes"
picking a fight with these idiotic 16 years olds...
i was thrown in the middle of the confrontation...
the 40+ year olds were adamant: these 16 year old colts
should have been standing on the fifth level!
yeah: and they should be drinking when underage...
help us help us! they're putting us in choke-holds...
help help!
fear is wild-eyed... one of my fellow stewards almost
had his fingers dislocated trying to break
up one of these skins trying to choke a colt to death...
screaming: i'm going to ******* **** you...
technically i'm not supposed to touch anyone
but i had to step in and calm everyone the **** down...
it's hardly a massive hard-on on my behalf trying
to intervene... but when you have to...
you take the colts to one side... protect them by "hugging"
them to the side... while talking to the skins
making a big ******* fuss...
luckily no one was hurt...
well... to an extent...
but i don't need that sort of stress...
i knew i had to decompress...
i travelled home (well, to the brothel first) with a bunch
of fuckless and faceless men...
me? i have no moral obligations: what comes,
is the same as what goes...
but i was stressed out...
by A. today's shift and by
B. my previous performance at the brothel...
i hate under-performing...
i was missing at least one of my aphrodisiacs,
i.e. tiredness... i need that more than anything...
i was coming from home and i drank
a little bit too much cider...
that's another aphrodisiac of mine...
perhaps i don't know my self (reflective)
all too well but i do know myself (reflexive)...
i.e. my body... i know what turns me off and what turns
me off...
KLEKS-KAKASHKA... a **** that's also a little ****
that's stored in my **** for an entire day...
to have *** i need to be completely emptied...
i need to **** anything remnant,
i need to **** the last remaining ****-flinging ****
out of me...

oh but there's nothing better than finishing a shift...
stopping over at the brothel...
getting your brains minced and listening to
the echoes of your footsteps at 3am...
the foxes are roaming: you just ****** Gypsy queen
of the underworld...
i realised something...
upon encountering regular ***...
i really... i really just need to have a regular access
to food... drink... a shower....
so i can pamper myself...
hmm... seeing pointless male drama of emotion
surrounding sporting events: intervening in them...
and regular ***... oh... *** is part of a necessary
existential diet... you can't live without it...
maybe that's why i try to limit my interests...
there's one video game i play...
but it's an online multiplayer game so...
since i abandoned PS1 narrative games...
Tenchu... Final Fantasy VII... Metal Gear Solid...
i'm rather fond on this: waiting for an interaction
gaming dynamic... i wouldn't pick up chess
even if you asked me: pretty please...

but a great **** requires me to write this little snippet
and then roll myself a DOOBIE...
a spliff... after a great **** like that i "fear" it's necessary
to smoke some marijuana...
come on... a Roma girl?! ol' Raven hair?!
saggy ****... but an *** like a cross between
an orange and a plum...
love at first sight...
i like women who feel it necessary to moan while
performing oral ***...
and this one was different...
her cousin liked to perform with her eyes closed...
Khadra wanted to perform with her eyes open
and looking into mine...
Denise kept looking into the mirror...

i wasn't trying to perform... not after last time:
under-performing... my mind was swallowed up by
a giant squid of irritabilities...
i went limp... *** is complicated...
but imitation ******* allowed me to sweat ol' Marie out...
Gypsy love... Bizet...
i finished early because i ******* felt like it was
necessary and we just sort of lay there...
caressing each other before one of us pretended more
than the other to fall asleep...

what, a, beau! i seriously don't think there's anything
necessary for man to appreciate beside
good food, shelter, and a good *******...
ah... but this one didn't give up her lips up so easily:
she didn't! cheeks! jawbone... eyelids and ears...
but not her lips... well... some women just need more
convincing than others...
i'll steal her lips the next time i see her...
i don't need anything more!
i'm rather content...
as we parted two girls were already in bathrobes
saying: bye bye while i kissed Denise on the cheek...
well yeah: bye bye...

the lemon is most certainly worth the squeeze...
but... as a man...
you really have to have very limited interests to
have an interest in women...
you can't be a comic book guy...
you can't exactly enjoy movies... apart from
the Godfather Part I... you can't...

hmm... women....
  what a splinter sub-cell of curiosities...
esp. if she's the one initiating tenderness...
akin to: don't kiss me on my lips...
just my entire face...
i did that "little " quirk of pretending my
index finger were the holy trinity:
of: hour by the count of the father,
minute by the count of the son...
and holy spirit by the count of the second...

the pains and aches of a ginger...
not exactly a Roma gypsy "queen" of: pristine ***
and: hmm... um um ums' ...

over the years i've built a strange lactose intolerance...
yesterday was a pristine day:
a shift at Wembley getting into a scuffle
trying to break up these bulks of men
in their 40s trying to choke to death these group
of colts... i was in a sniffing's worth of distance
seeing it first hand: how football makes people
truly irrational... as he was choking the poor
boy he was screaming: i'm going to **** you...
obviously i had to intervene...
one of my colleagues also got involved...
almost had one of his fingers dislocated as
we tried to calm the situation down...
break up the feud...

technically i'm not licensed to touch members
of the public, to rough them up...
thankfully i have acquired pretty good talking skills
with a good enough language of the body...
i inserted my hand between the two feuding parties
and separated them: the older guys started talking
with excuses about how they brought their own
children: one was a football coach for the young
blah blah this... all because the younglings protested
when asked to sit down...
they were clearly obstructing the view of the game
of the people sitting behind them...
as young boys do... they started their hysterical fits
about how the world ought to be X
and how people : esp. in relation to older men
they ought to be treated in an Y sort of way...
i had a burning thought in my head:
pooh-bear... that's not how the world works...
i grabbed this other boy trying to get him to calm down...
i put my arm around him and led him away...
again: we were supposed to get some support
from licensed SIA security guards...
we didn't get the response team we need
but we managed to somehow calm everyone the **** down...
but... i felt stressed...

thankfully she was there to do just that...
prior to i hovered around the brothel...
tweaking my body for some casual *** with a stranger...
i know my body well enough to know what
makes me perform *** and what doesn't...
i need about three aphrodisiacs...
tiredness from working...
i need to smoke a few cigarettes...
and i need to drink at least 6 units of alcohol...
that's either one strong dry cider... 500ml at 8.2%
and then two sips of whiskey...
or 500ml of 4.5% of a sweeter cider and 4 glugs
of a whiskey...
and i need to clear my head...
anything more and i need to ****: i get a ****-block...
the last time i got a ****-block it was because
i didn't measure my chemistry tools properly and
Khadra was there and i didn't choose her
and i heard her walk into the next room with another
client and i didn't hear much pleasure exuding
from her *******... no wonder i switched off...
but nothing equivalent to anger could have gripped
me from under-performing...
i performed in a different way...
after all... i did manage to get her sweating all over
her body as i sat on the edge of the bed
and she sat on top of me and she enjoyed the music
of my choice: whirling her pelvis in what's
imitation ***...

i'm only writing this because i know what under-perfoming
during *** feels like...
it's a lot different when you don't over-think it...
i know how that too much exposure to *******
can create a sensation during *******
where you don't actually realise that you're
the protagonist and not a ******...
that much i know: you have to repeat to yourself:
this is me, having ***...
no... this is not me looking at someone having ***...
this is me, having ***...

and i have to admit... i landed my zenith of "fetishes":
a Romanian gypsy girl...
she said so herself...
                        maybe that's another thing...
whether looking at pornographic movie materials:
always with the sound off...
some of the classical Italian stuff is dubbed anyway
by voice actors... so it makes little difference...

its a bit like the reverse of what happened to
Vilma Banky, Mae Murray and Norma Talmadge,
i.e. the actresses who didn't make the transition
from the classic Hollywood silent movies
to talkies...
                    with ******* it was sort of reversed:
in classical ******* from Italy and France...
you had to have vocal actors impersonating
the onomatopoeias of moaning from the seen actors...
who continued their careers...

after all: i did start in the classical sense of buying
magazines of **** women at an early age...
most of the guys were already sifting through
free online material... i thought it would be necessary
to actually find that void of "shame"
and share the grey-area of sexuality of what's
a purchase of a magazine... no *******...
take any Walter Sickert ****, for example: as comparison...

only today i felt the consequence of such a fulfilling day,
whoever tells you that *** is not important
is lying... not when you have it on a regular basis...
you finish a shift from 2pm through to 11pm...
you buy your aphrodisiacs already carrying one
in the form of tiredness... you mentally prepare yourself
to not get a limp **** during the act...
you take to the back alleys and try to fuse yourself
with the shadow and the night...
you walk up to two chicken shop workers having
finished shift... one of them looks at you
and tries to appease you because you look intimidating
enough: while carrying two pizzas he turns
around startled and asks: would you like a slice of pizza?
and you, in your most friendly voice reply:
no, no thank you mate... but thank you...
why? you don't want to have a full stomach when
having ***... you want to be hungry...

something else was added to my ritual...
i told myself once that i would never go back to smoking
marijuana...
well... things changed when the Queen died
on the 8th of September when i went to the brothel
and met an Afghan "Jamie"... who gave me a decent worth
of bud... would it be the same quality as in
Amsterdam? i did wonder...
lucky for me i performed that night...
i was drinking on the way back...
then rolled myself a joint...

   i went to bed and in my mind: i was glowing...
my heart was something abstract with no relationship
to the science of cardio medicine...
i felt this emptiness of release in my chest...
there was no heartbeat... just a heart turned mouth agape:
sieving through stars and the death of stars...
i suspected this for some time:
black holes, i.e. dead stars...
are 2 dimensional objects in an otherwise 3 dimensional
space... but you can hardly call the universe
a 3 dimensional space...
i've seen it simulated: in the original Tomb Raider
game on PS1... i used to stop Lara at the ferns...
those two dimensional ferns... 2 dimensional in
a 3 dimensional labyrinth... as you walked up to them
and started twisting the view... the ferns would twist...
turn... i imagine black holes to be like those ferns...
but... spinning really quick...
almost imitating the grandiosity of what was once
present... they are black "holes" but at the same time
they are hyper-anti-gravity of spinning
i think they are black orbs... not holes...
i think the whole idea that they are holes is wrong...
i think they are holograms that spin very quickly
since... well... does anything orbit them?
hence: they have to orbit around themselves...

i have always heard of aristophanes' story of soulmates be retold a bunch of times. the story always starts with humans originally having 4 legs, 4 arms, and a head with two faces. fearing the power they hold, zeus split them into two; condemning them to spend their lives finding their other halves.

i have always found it funny and fascinating. but i can't help but to think if the story is flawed?

because who's to say that there's only one person for me my whole life? who's to say that it can't take the form of a lover?

it can take place in the form of a friend that checks up on you at random
it can take place in the form of a professor that helps you when you've been underperforming
it can take place in the form of a parent that has always had your back throughout your years.

but why stop there? who's to say it had to be a person?

it can take place in the form of a sunny day where the sky is as clear as the ocean
it can take place in the form of an object that has always brought you back to your comfort zone
it can even take place in the form of a stray cat that is very playful to you everytime you pass by them

but again, i beg the question. who's to say aristophanes wasn't right? because maybe i am wrong

maybe, all this time, i just never met the right person

because i never met someone
who was as calm as a bright, blue sky
as playful and cheerful like a feral cat
as warm and welcoming like a friend

till i met you.

My roommates and I
always have something to say.
We talk incessantly, like chirping birds.

We’re all reading the same large print here, and It suggests that college is almost over.
We’re bleeding time and there are dreams in need of scheming.
It’s time to stack our chips with transactional relationships and hoard the things that matter most.

I have to admire the sheer attitude and bravado of these girls—their defiant strides,
as they face the invisible indignities and constant obstacles of job hunting.
(Where they’re required to behave while they’re observed and evaluated).

They have their resumes and they’re complaisantly ready to flex their appealing gregariousness.
All of the major playas are passing through—from established giants like (Amgen, Bayer and Genentech)
to biotech startups and research Institutes—to cull through the herd of Yale biomedical graduates.

I don’t get to play (interview) this time and it’s rough just watching the signs and plays from the sidelines.
I can’t help the feeling that I’m underperforming—even though my ‘Master of Public Health (MPH)’ program starts 10 days after we graduate. ‘Baby, I was born to run’— to steal a line from Bruce Springsteen.

Despite our separate paths—we’re like cats getting ready to jump in all directions—a bouillabaisse of intoxicating and terrifying excitement for the future is brewing, and we still have the constrictions of our current curriculum to deal with—like a snake, it still wraps around every aspect of our lives.
.
.
Songs for this:
born to run by Bruce Springstein
Time by Tom Waits
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_03.mp3

Twas partly on account
of yours truly being incarnation of Samson;
spouse and I wed
please fate, don't say alopecia didst tread;
though atheist to higher power
yours truly pled
heart sank analogous
to plumbline made of lead
as each strand falls out of my head
without being replaced by another,
albeit veritable dead
cells comprised once luscious locks.

Futile effort to bemoan
underperforming hair follicles,
nevertheless I rank as just one
limey, measly, and nasally outlier,
(nevertheless able bodied, minded
and spirited wordsmith) doth dare
to express honest to dog distress;
Now tis lament to thinning hair,
yours truly doth beseech cosmic creator

donned as devil in disguise
rudely barging into
mine Scottish tartan matted lair
non-responsive to fervent prayer
revealing how mine paternal
genealogical trunk mane lion
whooshes like a red bull at lightspeed
vis a vis tempus fugit
galloping manic tear.

Early this year
gentle as calm ocean waters
lapping along a weir
thumb and forefinger
of right hand would peel back,
(via diagonally flipping motion
asper turning pages of calendar
representing father time
regarding personification and progression)
of fleeting seconds, minutes, days,...

gets flipped over to veer
in one direction (linear)
thy head immediately
lost hirsute thickness,
I starkly share and lament
those suffering male
or female pattern baldness,
and can't hope noticing
limp decreasing strands
intermixed with increasing

number of gray ones
sends shivers along small hairs of spine,
gloomy feeling linkedin
with old fashioned meaning of queer
really ambling along tragicomic stream,
he evinced how gargoyles mockingly leer
in conjunction dreams fraught
with frightful haunting monsters jeer
loosing sleep and kept raggedly awake
ring sound reverberating

hair splitting, jump/
kick starting decibel jamming
primary cranial gear
aye tell mice elf nothing to fear...,
yet maximizing this plight with poem 'ere
Yukon also temporarily part
blond, brown, gold,
et cetera locks mud dear
regarding inexplicable
rhyme without reason

invites compulsion, fixation, obsession...
why keratinous filament
growing out of the epidermis
(made of dead, keratinized cells)
matters so much, that one
unnamed garden variety generic
**** sapiens would
rather be dead than bald.

i'm trying to think of a greater joy than that
of: drinking cheap wine
in the form of kalimotxo...
i'm trying to think: so much for thinking:
let alone trying...
i was doing some gardening today
since the weather allowed it to be done...
trimmed the evergreen bush...
this other Japanese bush of tenderness...
mowed the grass...
and by some "miracle" of absent-mindedness
i managed to cut the cable...
the fuses in the house popped out...
flicked them back on...
i wasn't "there": had to cut the cable
expose the copper wiring
and "connect the dots"...
   absent-mindedness: guilty of cognitive
negligence...
why? well a wire usually has two streams...
one encased in blue rubber
one encased in brown rubber...
what did i do?
technical man... ha...
i fiddled the two streams together...
the arteries with the veins: as it were...
the fuses popped out once more...
mind you: rarely can an appliance break:
if you first check the plug fuse...
the **** thing comes back to life:
regardless...
an unbelievable faux pas...
first encase the blue copper wiring...
exclusively... then encase the brown
copper wiring... and then...
bundle the two together...
but... since this was a demand of chores:
i was most probably thinking
about the joys of cheap wine...
i've tried it: the more expensive the less
joy in it...
perhaps i was thinking about that
Turkish ******* and... how...
she'll be gone in a year's time... perhaps more...
will i wait that long...
another hour with her:
i'll even bring her a signed copy
of a book of verse i published...
i'll get to the bottom of knowing her name...
drinking cheap wine
is a bit like riding a bicycle in the night:
or walking into the forest: also at night...
esp. when it's autumn and its dry
and the leaves murmur a polyphony
or rustle... crunch... hell: if ol' baldy is there
too in the sky... and you catch glimmers
of him through the branches that
begin to resemble cobwebs with your
one eye squinting...
just now, though...
i came across a video...
'the great gaming crisis' - thinking-agape...
not judging: men still in their 30s playing
consoles...
my last memory of gaming came
in the form of PS1: final fantasy seven...
tenchu... metal gear solid...
i wanted a PS2 so badly...
dead end...
eh... the odd spell of Rome Total War...
or Medieval Total War...
but even that fizzled out...
having invested in vinyl...
and more music... it's all music...
an old mix tape: where i surrendered
to "guilty pleasures"... mostly pop...
i'm a sucker for pop:

manfred mann - doo wah diddy diddy
the monkees - i'm a believer
joan jett - i love rock & roll
the rembrandts - i'll be there for you
phantom planet - california
sixpence none the richer - kiss me
suzanne vega - luka
madonna - beautiful stranger
eagle eye sherry - save tonight
leonard cohen - take this longing
belinda carlisle - heaven is a place on earth
deep blue something - breakfast at tiffany's
the cranberries - dreams
the connells - 74 75
4 non blondes - what's going on
leonard cohen - in my secret life...

drinking cheap wine might be deemed a guilty
pleasure...
for all the riches in the world...
give me all the emptiness of the head
and all the stone-grip of the heart...
what's the alternative?
stay sober: play video games...
it's hardly a reciprocation within the confines
of backgammon...
i tend to never touch chess:
su doku... that's me:
no room for crosswords...
i'm playing a game of stalemate with words
as we speak: i don't need clued avenues of
dictionary / encycloepedic entries...

no... i don't want to be a Buddha story:
to have it all and then give it up...
me? i want a trickle of having it all:
but at the same time: not having it...
a rare injection of: the banality of the carnal...

besides... what scene of horror gripped me
most?
in Amsterdam i spent an afternoon
with two Germans...
we went back to the hostel... an Egyptian armed
with a bottle of Absolut ***** and a joint...
i spent the next day with him...
he smoked... i drank beer...
he introduced me to Le Trio Joubran
and gave me a single **** of a joint...
while putting headphones into my ears...
my jaw dropped and i sat there
mesmerized by the abyss that my self
had become...
i must have looked like a ****** *****
i saluted a girl with a V (not for 5 or peace...
V for: i'd like that oyster... very much)
she sat there in awe:
no bigger awe that i was in...
we walked back to the hostel while i laughed
in the street...
those two Germans?
me and this Egyptian: an architecture student:
great at cartoon doodling...
we looked at each other with horror...
in the dark lit room...
the two Germans just ingested some
mushrooms and...
   ended up... watching American Dad cartoons
on the t.v.

- you heard stories from London about stabbings
and idiotic cyclists playing the wild card of
solipsists en route to something unimportant...
headphones in...
eye in the back of my head...
the thrill of the roundabout... always looking
out for a speed ticket...
usually an ambulance...
or just gagging for something than might
**** me... the momentum of a large
truck... always exposing myself from
the thrill of the blind-spot... swerving into
the eye-sight of the driver in the mirror
on the outside of the lane...
large gear into 3... small gears beginning at
3 working through to 6 for a sensation
of cruising in a convertible at night...

the bulging sensation of having a pulse...
in the legs and in the constraining sensation
of the torso being endowed with muscle...
watching the first proper summer
lightning and thunderstorm...
watching how the rain turned to hale...

underworld: born slippy...
if only i had the sort of chemical nostalgia
surrounding the end of the 20th century...
lucky me if she'll offer some angel dust
to sniff... she'll disappear in a year's time:
i'm not going to give up
that sort of ******* any time soon...

it's all true what William Burroughs is known
for having cited:
never a wasted moment with cats...
they'll dream for me...
dogs? that ******* leash...
and... toilet hours...
cats like plants: they can entertain themselves...
they don't need to be recognised
as cats... as pets... as hierarchical cretins...
although: children should be raised with
dogs if they don't have siblings...
cats come later... much later:
when the peers have hammered in
a preservation construct of their genes...
waiting game before child becomes
the automated self-fulfilling will:
how soon: sooner than never those...
happy pictures of having offspring will...
fizzle out...

i could sometimes be bound to watching old
movies while admiring the beauty of
seemingly ancient actresses...
then came a moment in my life where:
i stashed enough memories
for them to become a cinema:
while i played the leading role...

and as i aged: i became less and less angry
with youth... i stopped being the
"angry young man":
my anger was rooted in youth: per se...
perhaps i'm tinged with melancholy now...
but i'm hardly the repressed-depressed
reflex symptom carrier:
i like the romance of the melancholic
reflection... i don't know the i.q. scrutiny of
my sense of humour:
given i'm inclined to laugh at impromptus
that don't deserve much thought:
innuendo... or whatever you want to name it...

a scuttle for truths from advertisement:
this is why i don't like international football...
this is why i prefer club football...
i don't want to belong to some "whole":
so "entirety" when all it is: is a game of 22 ballerinas
kicking about a guillotine dead of
****** into: sensibly done...

now... me sober occupied with gaming or me...
drinking scribbling this...
best case scenario:
i'll be choking on my ***** of happy Cheerios:
oh look... here's a loop... here's another loop...
here's a cut-back...

come 2am i will leave life encrusted with all
the necessary impromptus:
because... this load of bollocking (on my part)
will still preserve itself as being: best left alone...
unscripted...
which is why i wondered: what of the tenacity
of these actors... their gargantuan gloat...
oh... right... they're only so because
they have been... scripted...
i am the antithesis of actor...
i'm looking for my whip-tongue from time to time...
i can't find it... if i were an obnoxious woman
in need of soap-opera company i'd be on
the ready...

       last time i heard...
a small dog barks...
a large dog... bites...
a wolf can't bark...
what am i... a barker... a howler...
or a biter?
never mind...
i see it as follows:
i'll cycle and spare myself the excess
calculation of the 20 odd mile
from the outer-reaches of what's
considered London...
into Hyde Park...
i'll drop to the height of pansies...
wrap my legs around my bicycle frame...
and drink a bottle of Merlot lying
back... sipped through the side of my mouth...
like a drip... drip... drip...
i've... had enough!

i'll expect myself to be peered at...
better that than... imitating
voyeurism not expected in a brothel...
to be seen is to be:
in some, questionable... heights of Frankish thought...
well... let it be known that i might be seen...
to hell with the whims of pissy-pants ms. chastity
who later feigns a lost "free-will"
among the... Pakistani abusers...
to hell with her:
give me the ol' raven haired Turkic woman!

wine wine more wine!
i don't want to hear another iota's worth
of a woman's whining!
and now the grave warm with
her expectations...
you bring women to the fore...
you can't expect the war to end:
any time soon... esp. this... "culture war":
death by proxy...
to hell with it...
           a war: a supposed war
where: no one dies... but everyone else
i numb-skulled senseless seeking out
positively-passive narratives...

i like the idea of cycling behind a greater
momentum than i can ever have...
behind a truck of concrete behind a truck
of ash...
behind a truck of solipsistic dunces coming across
the altar of sacrifice...
so far so good: concerning my wedding with
death... tight grieving ***** with tattoos of dates
and all her: crocodile tears...
almost as if a mother that...
no... sooner a sister i'd want to ****...
because: all that's good feels false...
and all that's evil is a conundrum of thinking
too much about, it...

all that same **** different cover
moral lingo...

mistletoe: a variation of: cancer:
botanical cancer...
i'll be feeding my sleeper cancer cells
some poison a while...
all those trees coming up to Warsaw
equipped with afro-bundles of
jemioła...

unlike dogs: dogs recognise drunks...
dogs don't allow drunks to get: tender...
cats? eh... a drunk will pass them by
with smooches...
my grandfather was a drunk...
and a solipsistic fiend...
my grandmother knew...
now she's happily widowed:
but my mother has this pristine
effigy of her father that...
boils under my skin...
that's simply not true...
the problems started when he retired...
and the entire shift of
the satellite-state post-Soviet
metallurgy industry came to a halt...

for the love of dogs: but not the leash
or the muzzle...
i can disown a concern for either
in the domain of the bonsai tigers:
i can: and since i can: i will!

cheap wine... nothing comes close:
except... relapses into spineless love
being adorned with an hour's worth
with a *******...
two bottle of red wine...
lord of mosquitos: nameless...
give me more!
between the cling to climbing mt. Everest...
and second sights of looking
at a naked body of a woman...

chase the tides!
put a stick into a river and will
a change of flow!
i'll go twice mad
looking at this altar before
i'm even once alive: therefore twice dead...
it's not her raven hair..
her ****** contorts when she follows
up on ******* with a kiss...
may i sacrifice her hands:
before the ice and the fire...
hands: one knuckle "short"...
it took me 4 years sleeping: bypassing my libido
to "somehow" suddenly wake up...

that old thirst for... underperforming yet
all that body that's heat...
toward Hyde Park...
drinking a bottle of wine while...
reclining: i'm not denying the fact
that certain words rhyme...
ancient Roman poets weren't lyricists...
they were: prosaic masters...

   scurror ego ipse mihi, populo tu:
rectius hoc et splendidius multo est.
   equos ut me portet, alat rex,
officium facio: tu poscis vilia -
           verum dante minor, quamvis fers te
nullius egentem...

utrius horum verba probes et facta, doce,
vel iunior audi...

i, joker unto myself i am,
but you unto the people;
i live better, moreover lightly,
a steed by the will of the lord lifts me :
the king feeds...
you, thus... begging...
        lash out and so tow horribly...
you are the sire... without...
needs...

no one is expected to sing these words...
2000 years from now:
i presume them to be cited:
once... the English tongue comes across
an impossible transformation:
that this here: now... tongue...
becomes... unrecognisable...
like Latin is to the modern amore! amore! Italian...
no?

  between the sight of the mountain:
or the sea... my death... and the sight of a body of
a naked woman...
i will forever cling to the latter:
starve me some more!
more! but don't expect me to be the pawn
in the supposedly sufficient "games"...

that i grieve these stones
and a softness i hardly begin to fathom as:
welcome... that my words are the illuminations
of a chapter lost...
a paragraph first written...
i will not allow time to be kind...
i will want time: to... shackle me toward
an unforgiving tide...
drown my sorrows in the croaking
of the priesthood of crows!
come i resurrected:
with any eye that's worth a
clepsydra's libra.

turning 36 the next day isn't easy, i was supposed
to tend to the eucalyptus tree today,
by tend i'm implying: trim it, curate it...

oddly enough i knew where the ladder was:
but apparently it's too windy to use...
so i said to her: gravity never fails...
i don't end up floating up... i'll just fall...

i never understood how women have
to mingle *** with pain from time to time...
next time she asks me about my scars
on my knuckles... i'll tell her to snort that
******* of hers while i smoke a cigarette
and then put it out on my pinky knuckle
without flinching...

*** and pain don't mix... not in my "dictionary",
i treat *** like two mollusks...
having evolved to invest their shells
and get some backbone and elbows and knees...

perfect example of what i'm talking about?
the song: pain by boy harsher...
turn off the light... no! in the brothel it's always
under dim lighting... with mirrors...
and sure as **** not under the bed sheets
in a sweat cocoon... we're not ashamed of
our bodies...

so i found the ladder... i too found that secateur
on a spear... every time i use it
i think of gerimannoz... no... ****... that's too early...
those spearmen belonged to the great migration
period to the tribe of the Suebi...
i mean those spears... no... pikes!

the reisläufer and landsknechte... well i found
that secateur... but some branches are too thick...
i need a handsaw...

what came later was an explosion of superlatives
of the most debased language imaginable...
my mother tongue woke up and started making
oaths... KURVA... PIERDOLONA MAĆ etc.
ŚCIANA KLEPTOMANII!
   one thing on top of another...
    
  my father can lecture me on a lot of things:
but certainly not on keeping order...
  a wall of kleptomania... one thing blocking
another thing...
i need the ******* handsaw!

and like i said to my mother after i gave up:
it would be pointless to sieve through all this crap
just to find one tool...
   sure... i can find about 5 hammers...
what am i going to do? hammer a branch down?!

that's what i call curse / oath / profane words...
urywniks -
     kurva is an urywnik - which stems
from przerywnik: cut-scene...
     and also from the word: urwać: break off...
rip off...
      when you become so angry that you start
cursing and forget yourself / rip yourself off
from your self... and there's a reason why
   that's not compounded... the your from self
detached... it's almost a loosely associated sense
of reflection: not the reflexive yourself
but the reflective your self,
    but at the same time lost to fury... havoc...

it's not that my father is a hoarder...
   that i can sort of understand, but that this one tool:
the handsaw... is obstructed by unnecessary things
stacked in an idiotic way...

work: obstructed... what am i going to do with
the rest of my day?
   return that ****** black tie to Marks & Spencers...
because i need a clip-on tie and i don't exactly
feel like being tugged my a proper tie in
the event that i meet violence... in a stadium...

i even started to think: well the keyboard isn't
there to easily access the diacritical markers of
my native language... what if i just play the Hebrew
and hide the diacritical marks
(not out of laziness) but like the Hebrews
hide their vowels...

although: that's ******* debatable... considering that
i'm suspicious of the following in
the Ktav Ashuri:

א - it's given equal status among consonants:
but it's also a vowel...
where's the Eva equivalent?
there isn't... there's only that story of
the two Adams of Eden:
                                              ע - ayin and aleph...

because how did life start? sexless...
don't even get me started on the niqqud...

now: if i were to write the name of the Islamic
god in Hebrew, how would i write it?
i'd white it as follows:

אללעה

            that's how logic words:
take the Greek alphabet...
    the rule of the PREXIX-suffix when given
names to atoms that are letters...

αLPHA... you have a name for a letter...
       but you strip the letter of its name and you're left
with just the letter...
to build words with...
    Σigma - likewise: the -igma drops off and you're
left with Sssssss....   (Y) - serpents in trees...

so what do you get with the noun: aleph?
a-leph... ergo... a vowel given the same status as
a consonant... kametz and the patach are the vowel
A... but treated as diacritical marks...
the "degraded" to status of the niqqud -
    since vowels are seen as feminine...
while consonants are seen as masculine...
on the simple basis: ** and XY...
                      
                              a vowel is free-standing...
**... while a consonant requires a stacking...
RA... otherwise... sure... you could turn R into
a vowel... but it would be a trilling of the tongue...
a rattlesnake sound...
you could turn M into a vowel...
   but your mouth would have to be closed
and you'd have to hum the M...

oh ****! consonants can be vowels...
  but your mouth has to be closed to turn them into
vowels!

- i rarely dream, but today i woke up from a dream,
like i already mentioned: every day is a birthday,
i go to bed, sleep, rarely dream... wake up:
born "again"...
    i was searching the meaning of the name Linda
yesterday... originally 'linde': ref. to the the lime tree...
don't ask me why...

but the dream wasn't visual...
it was: auditory...
                          only with a blink of the eye
upon waking and quickly closing it did i conjure
up what i heard...
i was talking to someone about the etymology of
words regarding chess pieces...

a mix of English and Polish and: clearly a third language
because... thinking back on it...
the etymology didn't make sense...

the names of chess pieces in English:
king         bishop
queen      knight
rook         pawn

the names of chess pieces in Polish:
król                              skoczek
hetman         ­               wieża
goniec (laufr)             pionek

    (mind you, these rubrics are mixed up,
    they're not like for like)

why is the hetman not a "queen": not damą
(potocznie) - as it was referenced to keep
with the vogue of the English tongue?
                      and how many women in the past
ever waged wars, beside Joan of Arc?

point being... the topic was about the bishop...
it turn out we were talking
about the term bishop originating in:
rolling barrel...
                                the laufr: lauframi...
giermek... someone who used to run in front of
someone's carriage: or rather: läufer...
properly...  i.e. lauframi gives only 1,240 results
in google...
but lauframi potocznie gives 7,120 results...
and the proper term: läufer and not laufr...
   since lauframi is plural... and the correct way
to cut out the plural would be to say: laufr...
without saying the word in Niemy...

                          i had to change around
lauframow nocleg
   into lauframov nocleg to get a google-whack...
a 1 result search... but it's not like in the good-old-days...
now that single search result
is hidden among about 5 different advertisements...
you're better off with 2 results... which is the former
with the W rather than the V...

well... anyway... this has been the most vivid
exclusively audible dream i've ever had...
it's jumbled by that third language i can't decipher:

rolling barrel... no... wait:
it wasn't even the word rolling...
certainly: baryla - i.e. baryła...
       or even the diminutive baryłka...
hopping? jumping...
the prefix: dam... dum...
                 biskup... that's bishop in Polish...
the third language: in dream-world context:
i don't think it was even a human language...

how did i come to this point in life:
i must have written (yesterday) that...
(while) walking through a *** desert
you become less and less thirsty as you walk further
without ***...
        you turn your attention to things like:
die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft -
a Teutonic crusader song...
     after the death of Barbarossa... funny how he
died... did that pickled ginger reach
Jerusalem in that barrel of his?

                did they pickle him or sustain his
body in... oh no... wait... medieval man...
well... apparently circa 1430 a(n)
                  Isidore from Chudov Monastery
discovered *****... Isidore...
   now: i didn't give consent to being baptised...
i sure as **** didn't give consent to being
    confirmed: i'm not confirmed...
i'm an apostate: last time i heard...
   Richard Dawkins has been confirmed...
atheist on a whim... i made my mind a long long
time ago... even if i met "god": i'd be running
to the devil to get the whole picture...
but if i were given the privilege of being confirmed
what was that name i was thinking of?
that third name? Isidore...

      anyway... barrel... Barbarossa... barta-blondine...
blonde moustache: that's me... i still don't understand
why my grandmother used to call it ginger...
then again: she used to call drinking beer
ingesting "empty calories"...
she never learned to ride a bicycle or swim...

what diacritical marker would you use on the ιota
to morph it into an e? so that barta-blondine
would become ala-dean?
    i.e. the -e would become an optional (e)?
i'm thinking... macron...
   barta-blondιn... wait wait... maybe that's it!
why is the hovering "halo" above the i and j even
necessary? surely there's no aesthetic improvement
if it was simply ι & ȷ:
   clearly you can easily confuse uppercase I with
a lowercase l and lowercase L with 1...

i'll just do the Hebrew from now on...
if my native tongue will spring up i'll just avoid
using the diacritical marks...
sort of hide them... not on purpose: perhaps on purpose...
too much fiddly bits and bobs...

oh hell: my throat is dry... i need some wine...
i shouldn't have added that tease of pink gin
into my coffee... well you know what they say...
even a little bit of gin in your coffee is better
than no coffee at all... sorry: gin...

           maybe that's why those girls simply:
never stick... around...
    i need something tremendous to wake my libido up...
last time i went on for several years without
getting intimate... but when my libido was woken:
and woken it was by grooming my female cat:
she raised her **** into my face because
i touched all the right spots... that was it...
i was cycling like mad through London trying
to avoid the one brothel i knew...
  
   obviously i ended up going there...
lucky for me the prostitutes changed...
    where i met Khedra... i want to see her again so bad
but i don't feel like underperforming....
there's no need...
            i need to get the mood... the mood...
i want to get thirsty:
and i tried not watching ******* to "wake up"
from being some "docile" whatever...
1 month sober: nope... that doesn't work either...
plus jerking off helps when you're constipated or
whatever bowel problems you have...

sure thing... ******* and water...
or water and the back of your neck...
  or your scalp... that tonsure region: the kippah aqua
hot-spot... or... the occipital bone... + water...
streaming down... good thing i have my *******...
that i wasn't mutilated by religious orthodoxy...
if i didn't have my *******: in some societies
i'd probably have a wife...
a wife that would have a hard time divorcing me...
save your foreskins! for god's sake!
or... whoever's sake...

no no: i get it... her past relationships... she was
playing the whole gimmick of Laurence... ****...
that's the Arabian guy...
Florence Nightingale: night-tin-gale...
she was trying to make these poor, broken men...
better...
            one being a woman and child boxer...
another abandon-er... another a ******* stiff-y...
me? oh shh shh... i drink a little write just as little
turn completely cuckoo in silence
          make my own wine bake my own cakes...
she couldn't figure me out: she ****** off when
she realised she couldn't improve me...
                      that i wasn't going to play the role:
her son's older brother...

                  i need to get my mojo back...
i feel like doing what i used to do:
hang around the brothel and rub my fingertips
on harsh coarse bricks before going in and touching...
pouches of flab and muscle and hidden bone...
too much of *** leaves nothing to the imagination...
i need to find my oasis: my fata morgana of an oasis (even)...

but first i need to shed off at least 2kg from the current
100kg i'm on... sure sure... it's more muscle than
anything... but i need to feel leaner...
but first... some wine...