a great quantity of money
goes to education
but what about being  brainwashed
we indirectly pay for it
we are blind to the world
a fine line between facts and opinions
and putting two and two together
it takes 1 line in our life
a goodbye kiss
a death
someone's last sentence
to learn everything we need to
so much money
to think how someone else thinks

unoriginality

we save up for

my grades are bad
but little do they know Im bored

I hate education
spending money and a large percentage
of our lives
to turn our organic minds
into a one way street
that everybody is parked on

poems of boys broken boys breaking boys boys breaking
silly little girl you never thought your world revolved around your involvement with boys but even distance was deliberately calculating their gravitational push and pull silly little girl i say to my old self i wonder what my future self will think of me?

i. Allow yourself to be clichéd. Forgive yourself the comparison to phenomena like stars, tsunamis, volcanoes, and the end of the world.  There is no shame in depicting the galaxies you see in your irises or the seas crashing in your lungs. Don’t for a minute diminish your words because you’re afraid of seeming larger, lovelier, or grander than you really are. Keep writing huge. Keep writing splendorous.

ii. Destroy the anxiety gap between you and your work. Sit down and write whatever’s filling you in that moment. When stupidity comes, embrace it. When unoriginality comes, offers it your deepest welcome. When panic comes, give it a wink and keep dragging your pen across the page. There is no wrong, no right. There is only Something. Do not label the Something in such stark, dull terms as good or bad. If you must label it, label it burning, label it victorious, scarlet, howling, fresh, moving, disastrous, gleaming, but never reduce it to success or non-success. Who are you to determine these things? How can you take what streams out of you and cram it into a superficially constructed box? Would you degrade any other kind of natural release? Would you relegate blood flow or shouting or tears to a simple one-word title? This is your time to glow in full vulnerability, to fall head over heels for every blundering, beautiful thought within you, so build a bridge between you and the paper that will be strong enough to bear your weight. Then cross it.

iii. Know who you are writing for. It should be yourself, not the one who holds your heart or the fire-faced figure in the park at dusk or people who make your soul twist. Write for brave, bruised you; wondering, powerful you. Always you.

iv. Rise above the need to match your creation to a preordained image in your mind. The two will never be the same and this is fine. Accept whatever you produce with tender detachment, then move forward. Remember that every literary icon has felt the same pounding dissatisfaction, and walked about tugging at their hair, frustrated and abashed. Remember they are no closer to divinity than you. Ultimately, we are all just shells through which a greater ocean sings, so let yours wail its melody as it likes.

v. Write without the tight egoic fist; write without a blueprint; write without fear. Write like it is your first day on earth and you are stunned with awe. Write like the caterpillar bursting from its cocoon, transformed, breathless. Write like that.

questioning the soul, questioning
the mind. why did that girl have
to have so many strokes? how
skew'd is the memory? spirits,
spirits on high for nigh recurrence -
nihil remembrances. mention'd by
name once. something wrong with
the body. disconnecting from on
high, disconnecting in a somewhat
general sense. no straight lines in
nature, no chaos in nature. get away
from the species' mentality. chaos.
c-h-a-o-s. chaos. chaos. species created
word to organize the unorganized.
straight line, polygon, order, chaos. time.
species ingrain'd, call'd instinct. to file,
to follow, to seek originality through
unoriginality. thru the banal. memory
warp'd, once could live. self-destruction
and a thought of living life without
affecting the choices of others. weakness.
chaos. rambling. tryptamine influenced
creation of language. showing teeth,
trying to intimidate. trying to rise, a
Jane of the Jungle form of archetype.
the passionate, caring, forbearing,
ape hunter. and lids sinking, closing off
the soul of influence. struggling thru
connections severed. those released from
******* by soul's recollections. by
metaphysical muscle memory. weeping
chaos, wailing order. finding null purpose
in. in. of all things. all people, all purpose.
knowing the worthlessness of well-chosen
words. and gaining access, and
trying to rise, and thirteen lines to stretch.
thirteen to fill across.

it's not plagiarism,
rather, a collectivist
coincidence -

    i can't believe people
in the former days would
reduce themselves
to plagiarism -

    they'd sooner die than
relieve themselves
of an original idea -

   working with a mythology -
how could such
differentiated people
achieve copernican
globalist relativistic /
globalist impetus,
  and yet, somehow succumb
to an ethnocentric -
    genesis of unoriginality...

yes, unfathomable,
the concept of polyphony,
synchronicity inter-people...
    plagiarism is a modern
phenomenon,
   it doesn't exists in
collectivism of inter-ethnic
conundrums of
segregating categorization...

      just like evolution is god's
take on the thrill of gambling...
an original idea...
   allowing an in group focus...
it could never be a plagiarism -
    the segregating process of
techno. advancement...  
         toward a...
less cultural appropriation...
and more?
   cultural loaning...
      "plagiarism"...
       perhaps i should "read" into
solving crossword puzzles...

now plagiarism is easy...
any son of sam
is not an arsonist...

             but as my continued fascination
continues with
    andrei chikatilo...
and batman, the dark knight rises
scene on the plane:

  why would you shoot a man,
before taking him into a prison cell?!  

ah... christine chubbuck...
this fascination... will not, die...
such a solemn,
              vernacular death...
worthy of a Vatican pawn-ship
of preceding the scourge of death.

I wrote a poem for you
The day before I met you

When I didn’t yet know a soul can be shipwrecked
Or that the sun can have secrets
When I hadn’t yet learned to look for symptoms
Or dreamed you could become my weakness

You entered me like a sickness
From your first ‘hello’
You whispered my world red
And smiled it yellow

You came to me; a sonnet
A decorated soldier
Dressed in sentences and statements
With which to catch a schoolgirl
In succulent surprise

Your eyes kissed me
Long before your lips did
And under the spectrum of your splendor
My heart bloomed a blushing orchid

I was a slave to my sweet-tooth
You, a dulcit daydream
That knew just how to turn me
From still life into story
And in so doing, you cast me -
A shapeless statue -
Into your private purgatory

You created a planet
With just us living on it
And a snakepit, a sinkhole
With which to swallow me whole

I wrote this poem for you
The day after I met you
I thought it worth to mention
Why I started to regret you

So please pay close attention
(As I’m trying to forget you):

My innocence
Though far from inner sense
Was no less common
Than the unoriginality
Of your sugarcoated sin

Twirl and contort
Shape-shift and Distort
Undeniably a misfit
To function logically in the world we live in.
Fighting unoriginality
Breaking the bad reality
Unbeknownst to me yet?
"Too young", they say, "to fret".
Well beyond the years that I am,
Far below the society I am in.

Classy J going array, with such sassy display to you’re overbearing dismay. Blasting off today, I’m as cool as sorbet, but yet as hot as soufflé. Everlasting eternities as the cycle goes on for humanity, where some live for the moment and others search for divinity. ****** prey wanting me on their tray, the only thing I’ll give you is the direction to the doorway. Rick Ashley stray’s, I’ll throw yawl back out in the alleyway. Future class, never ever low on gas, if you mess with me, I’ll shatter you like glass. I’ll use a computer bypass, to shove a virus up your ***, not to be played with, bro don’t you know that I’m bats. I don’t butcher the masses, or overburden you like taxes, I’m just your average Joe trying to make good of all this blackness.

Not a sore loser, nor a party pooper dear querying lass, I stand my ground; yeah you bet I got ***** of brass. While some of yawl puff the grass, this creature is trying to cure the world’s tumor created by us jack assess. Don’t run on flats, tackling my demons to the mat, yeah I have gotten through life by crawling down its crevasse! Don’t listen to rumors, some call me a trooper, you have to learn how to maneuver all haters and accusers. Living life by focusing on the hourglass, I’m not one to sit idle peeping out the looking glass. But forget all of that because life is nuts, and I’m just an outlet that slams the hard truth to your guts. Enough with your meaningless chitchat, I’m done with all yawl fretting and *******, time to buck up pussycats. Your listening to a lyrical architect, don’t have time for rats or insects, this is just apart of the classy effect.

I don’t make threats, don’t you forget I make promises that will eventually be met. I’m just a twisted afflicted un-constricted gifted individual who tries his best not to be too cynical. It’s so inconceivable but yet so believable, not your typical rapper, yeah I got principal. I am always original, I am a mystical miracle; yeah I’ll be making sure you know I’m no longer going to be invisible. Beat the odds, unlike all these frauds, I know my place, I’m definitely not a God. Heated rods of critics who keep on trying to burn me, but it just feels like a thorn to me. Street with needs to meet, used to the odds, so don’t think we’ll grovel at your feet. We are not mincemeat, we are not just going to take a backseat, we stubborn as concrete, yeah we are not going to retreat.

Privileged trying to turn us neat and tidy, without them they say we incomplete, that even though we coloured we should strive to be just another ignorant whitey. Don’t you know it’s all about image? We are savages, yet they are the one’s who diseased and burned down our villages. No I don’t seek forgiveness from wily coyotes, we are not a showpiece, like some kind of conquest trophy. No I’m not finished, is there something wrong with your psyche, naughty sly feisty vermin that itch like poison ivy. I politely tell you to ****, love the irony of your fear and hate of aliens, when you yourselves came to this land from a ship, which to us was a UFO. Anyways like I said, I may go off on different tangents or phases, because there are places one needs to tread. I like to educate airheads, I like to make em red; yeah I don’t leave things unsaid.
I want to unthread this sideways planet, if you’re looking for someone who doesn’t mince words; well I’m your prime candidate.

E-town is what I represent, legacy I will cement, rap game I came to resurrect. Let’s rundown the extent of these frequent fallacious formalities, those auto-tuned drugged up wangsters that are the definition of distasteful unoriginality. I frown upon the dissent of where rap ended up, it sure need a classy clean up. I know music is subjective that it is all in perspective, but to me this garbage kids listen to is far from impressive. I find trap music ineffective and unreflective, I don’t respect something so obstructive. That’s just my two cents, and though to me it makes no sense, others may not agree and still listen to that senseless content. What I’m trying say is opinions are like *******, everyone got one, but that’s what makes us unique souls. This is just a part of the classy effect, can’t wait for what happens next, can’t wait for changes to manifest.

my apologies
for my speechless soul
for my cliched analogies.
trust me, that wasn't the goal.
my heart seems
to speak a different code.
rather than logic, dreams
rather than smooth, the bumpy road
you deserve more than this
all the condescending words and unoriginality
crushing your spirit until I miss
your honest uncensored personality
As I sit in this car,
crowded physically but alone at heart,
even though you are so far
you still tear my mind apart.
the thought of you fills me
your laugh, your smile, your voice.
In case you couldn't see it,
I never had a choice.
It couldn't be someone
who never gave me a glance
No, now look what you've done
you've made my heart dance
                                                           ­               M.C.M

I lost the quintessence
of my rainbow beaded being
along with
the calligraphic indian feather pen.

The blood from my arteries
are replaced with black ink on paper.
The ingenuity of it all.
How much I despise it
the unoriginality ?

Not feeling me in my own words.

Soma
a pharmaceutical usurpation
some subjunctive psychedelic
noxious decoction
of the capital  kind
wrought by unoriginality
a conjuring elixir
to ignite the  material  mind

Maya
will have you
if you don't recognize
behind appearances
is always a disguise
beyond the superficial
over what eyes can surveil  
may entitle you to what is
to be entailed

Yuga
beyond the ages
beyond the sages
epochs and eras
multiplied to infinity
expecting some recourse
exponential beyond sanity
gauges of the cyclical planetary

Akasha
ubiquitous aether
all pervading
all invading
revelations' recordings
substratum of
then and now
rife marshaler of how

Ishwara
great atman
ultimate overseer
transcending all time
cosmic conscience
consciousness sublime
beyond everything
sight unseen

Samadhi
reign over me
the be all and end all
of life's raisons d'être
superconsciousness
enlightenments
bestowal
of divine grace and mercy

Gunas
by knowledge of these moods
this will allow you
ambrosia of all roads
in your journey ahead
to navigate solely
without flag or fail
through equipoise unassailed

Ahimsa
through this your lips
can no longer trespass
over your welfare
or the welfare of any other
true liberation
from human inebriation
true love for one another

Siddhis
they will misunderstand you
not being like the same
eschewing commonality
for the perfected mindscape
a narrowed perspective
to focus more completely
upon the rarest of views

Om
what can be said
of this holiest sound
that permeates all ethers
the skies and the grounds
Brahman of this plane
and all that surrounds
now perish all that confounds

In my car
Listening to tastes better suited to the past
Smoking cigarettes.
Inhaling thoughts desired. Exhaling
    ideas of unoriginality.

Living a priveledged life in the U.S.A.
Free if worries of **** and ******,
Belly full of carnage and illegal immigration.

Head twirling like ballerinas
Twinkling piano, followed by
Strings of mourning
Deep and somber
Reverberating lost love
       and new life
Ember glowing. Smoke.
Eyes flipped inside out
Without humor
Like the 99.9% plasmatic Universe.

I’ve opened up
to the possibility
of being

of being something different
of being something new
of being something nobody
thought I could be
of being something beyond
recognition
of being something beautiful
of being something wonderful
of being something I am proud of
for once
of being something above
what I was before

I dream of this
I wish of this
I know of this
I act on this

I dream to be a singer
of unimagined tunes
I dream to be a winner
of contests unknown
I dream to be a leader
of people without
the ability to move
forward
I dream to be a teacher
of unspoken things
I dream to be a successor
of every free-
thinker and
innovator
I dream to be an original
in a world bent
on unoriginality

I want.
I will.

be.

all of this.
every last bit.
I will be.

I will be.

I am being,
all of this.

all of
it.

.i've seen cover songs
                 being overplayed:
t.a.t.u.,
              snake river conspiracy...
of the smiths': how soon is now?
mind you... do you feel that
chernobyll itch? do you?

i like this quote:
the loudest applauses
craft the most silent encores...
who was it? i guess it must haven been
me,
if it wasn't me, then...
we have a problem.....

well thank you,
the danes found out...
the warsaw pact attempted to keep
it hush hush....
                  i am:
the sleeping diatribe...

such a spectacular disobedience
to having fathomed
the obedience
to the last remaining iota
of a purpose....

              friend to boyo fiend,
and the jargon buste (adjunct)....
while toying with
being enemy to the squish
  and the tentacle lover
            of lost
& last concerns...
serves you a: counter sushi
masterpirece with a worth
of herrigs....
to mind a counter with...

                   you know how "god" abhors
"original" sin..
what becomes "sin"?
well... "unoriginality"...
      i too hate  & abhor the platitude
of plagiarism;
i'm a blatant Evangelist
at this point...
             i'd rather die...
before i'm reborn...
then again... i'd slso act
like Jack Nicholson....
but then again my demands
are worth are shutters squat...
to mind...
          what becomes a Led Zeppelin
"original" sin...
           tobacco shutters...
taping-course:
wet tobacco...
not chewed, rather, smoked...
whatever...
people will never believe the victim...
they will, when there's
a dead body... otherwise...
dead wise no war no death sold...
apparently the dead
are "wise" when there's no war....
then again...
when war...
the "wise" also claim:
there are no casualties....
who needs them?
no one can recognize them, anyway...
mother death justice earth:
who can blindly recognize either!
the twin justice,
that justifies encompassing both...
the joy that originates
from wet.... tobacco;
i don't care who's to blame...
all i care about is that...
someone is actually claimed,
as requested
for being made to claim blame.

now god, now no god,
now the infantile man
with a belief in a god,
now a memorable
  now a seriously acclaimed man
of concrete disbelief...
that... pristine atheist...
i too hold my claims
to be of barren wastelands
in order to have them
be made for the worth of them
being cherished.

i would just like to say that you make me angry. when i think of your unoriginality and your entitled tone of speech, my blood boils. sometimes i think of how much happier i would be if i could leave your bland face behind and just start over. your face makes me want to pack up all my things and run to the edge of the planet.


possibly fall off !

my poems are just
well written reminders
of all the things
you've thought of
but forgot to write down.

My sentences get rambled up.

They make sense up there, but not once they're down here. They lose their "umph", their clarity, their ingenuity. Some too short, some too long. Never comfortable or natural in my mouth but perfect and unflawed in that glorious thought bubble.

But I'm learning to say it all anyway. Despite uncertainty, despite unoriginality, despite "perfectness". Because the biggest "despite" I've come to learn is myself.

502 bad gateway byways short:

Paul's *** never
favoured itself as a prized
asset for making
gazpacho...

this is not an album review per se, that's just the cover, my true intentions for writing this come after... but at the same time: it's a thought experiment - concerning attention spanning... if i continued down the path of being my own pretend radio DJ... listening to songs from as many possible artists i'd lose track of the beauty of listening to an entire album in one sitting... i find that most people these days are unable to listen to an entire album by one artist... it's difficult... i can give an example of one album that trained me to be patient... my father was a big fan of King Crimson... in the Court of the Crimson King is always the album i go back to to regain my concentration skills when it comes to something i haven't heard before...

the first few words will be difficult...
      i'm just not feeling them...
                  i left my feelings elsewhere...
i'm already elsewhere...
    it's truly impossible to make music this good...
what was the album i listened
to last... when all of the opening 5 songs i really
liked? there's usually a high...
   then some middle ground... some low with
a ballad or equivalent... perhaps a stadium filler
anthem: most of Queen's stuff was the latter...

1. holy peak
   2. television
     3. small dogs
       4. i've had enough
         5. ambition...         o.k. fair enough
     this is the first track that i'm not feeling...
but after four tracks that pumped me up...
i need to slow down with the hype... fair enough...
          
now i'll need to take a break so that the music
will catch up with me writing this...
thankfully there's that glass of sharpshooter whiskey
and pepsi and a cigarette about to be lodged between
the index and *******: and the coolness
of the night...

            6. dance macabre - also a welcome interlude...
sort of reminds of the madness of Gong's
flying teapot (radio gnome invisible part 1)...
    during the time i was dating this Russian girl
and every time i put this record on: she freaked
out and told me to turn it off...
                  that's almost like this one guy i knew
and when i put on Greenskeepers song Lotion on
he would immediately tell me turn it off...
so much for adventurous stoners...

   7. valley of the dolls... a song trying to regain
energy... this is the moment in the album
i was reflecting on the prior two songs...
but come...

  8. stars wars... we're back to the energy of the first
four songs... the bass has become relevant once
more...

   the album will finish with two cover songs...
a Bob Marley and a Serge Gainsbourg songs...
i haven't heard them yet... so i can't say: refill!
need more ice... this heat-wave isn't helping anyone...
at least in winter you perhaps wake up shocked
to wake up in the dark in the morning...
but at least you don't wake up exhausted...
there's only one plus of this heat-wave...
a lack of appetite... what did i eat today?
two eggs on two pancakes...
                                     and... a mixed berry milkshake...

mind you... i also made raspberry sorbet...
but clearly people have got it all wrong
when it comes to sorbet recipes...
i'm so glad i didn't follow it to the exactness...
people use too much sugar...
clearly:

250g of sugar
250ml of water... the sugar is to be melted
    in the water... the was: obviously heated...
juice of half a lemon
400g of raspberries...

i didn't use 250g of sugar...
i must have used about 200g but i wish i used
even less...
and i didn't use half a lemon...
i used the juice of two lemons...
and i didn't use 400g of raspberries...
after tasting the slush... i decided to blitz
up probably another 100g of raspberries: if not more...

sorbet shouldn't be sweet... it should be tangy...

9. get up, stand up... well clearly it isn't
a reggae cover... it's a new wave take on reggae...
   it is what it is...

10. moi non plus...
                  i do know all about the ad hominem
response toward ol' Serge... i'll be honest...
               i'm not that familiar with his music...
                      refill...
well... walking back up the stairs was rather
interesting... now i have to listen to the original...
but not yet... the best part being:
REWIND...

track 1...holy peak... twice on repeat...
                now i'm satisfied... i couldn't rewind
on that song alone haven't i listened to the whole
album... that was great... 40 minutes well spent...
hmm... new wave post-punk has always been
my place to go: the origins of punk are...
3 chords? 3 minute songs?
           music for people with short-attention spans...
just like i could never get into rap...
hip-hop: sampling jazz: yes...
                                    death metal too... i can't stand
that ****...

no to lift my mood concerning what i was actually
going to write about...
Faun - Seemann
   the night is looking ****...
                        that rhubarb and strawberry cake
i baked today was also sort of ****...
plus the added sorbet... but on a Sunday as hot
as it was today: what else is there to do?
perhaps watch the World Athletics...
                     oh man... i'm dreading working
the shift at Wembley for the Women's Euro finals...

i don't have a problem with female tennis:
i actually enjoy it more than men's tennis...
i remember a time before the great trinity arrived
that male tennis was all about the serve...
hardly any ******* rallies...
                 yawn...
                          but women's tennis was always more
interesting: for me, at least...
and the "asexuality" of the Olympics was always
appealing...
                but... pushing this ******* agenda
of: women will be as great footballers as men sort of
shakes the myths associated with names
according to Bobby Charlton... Pele... Maradonna...
any other sport... but not football...
not rugby... not boxing...

                tennis is a ladies game... it's beautiful!
golf is boring for either party: i don't see what the big
joke is: except i do... when Robin Williams explained
the invention of golf...
the stats are in... what's troubling is how people
love to lie to themselves...
sure... perhaps in Spain: where the women's Barcelona
team can fill the Camp Nou: unlike in club football
in England where the only people attending are...
small children... friends and family and "empowered"
women...

that's why at female football matches
people with S.I.A. licenses are not given shifts...
no one expects trouble at a woman's football match...
you have too many children...
not enough rowdy teenage boys...
so the risk of violence is minimal...
                     i don't get it...
   women had access to sport... they always did...
they also had access to literature:
who did Marquis de Sade write for? men?
i don't think so...
                     but certain sports are certain sports...
how many sports are there in the Olympics?!
i'm not even bother counting...

so i was watching this World Athletic Championship
today...
hmm... those heptathlon athletes look pretty...
snap of the figure: the idea is gone...
because i stop focusing on the women
and focus on what they're doing...
the same with tennis...
                 ****... Eugenie Bouchard /
   Monica Puig is playing...              i can't....
     concentrate... snap of the fingers...
                       the initial idea is gone... i focus on the tennis...
when i watch a women's football match...
those knee-long socks...
sure... they're not playing in skirts... but in shorts...
but... in England schoolgirls do wear those long
white socks...
                too much ******* hair in the air...
i don't watch women's football for the football:
i watch women's football for the women...
plain as a lost shadow come noon
   on a desert platitude...

let's face it... there are areas where women excel
beyond any man...
gymnastic and ballet...
men are props in ballet...
       tarty-socked-up buffons...
              a sort of Spinal Tap spin-off...
but gymnastic? the agility: the pliability
of their bodies... men's bodies are rigid-strength
structures... in gymnastics a woman's entire
body is used... in the case of man?
his prowess: his upper body strength...

are women's bones made from chewing gum
or something? or are they actually possessed
with an exoskeleton?
i guess girls that aspire to be footballers
only wished to be able to play football with
the boys in school... but the boys said no...
so the girls were like: Mr. Big Brother!
give us a league! give us a league!

but they're so... "unattractive" in their pursuit...
given: looking at the crowd that attends...
thank god this is not the world cup...
i'd hate to have to spot my favourite female
player... what?! because she plays fantastic football?
Hazard player fantastic football at Chelsea...
moving to Real Madrid ruined the poor sod...
i'm talking about...

Alexandria Morgan... football? eh? there's a pitch?
there's a stadium? there are two goals?
what are you talking about?
   i'm not here for the football...
                  ANY OTHER SPORT...
South Korean women at the Olympics in the sport
of archery...
yes... i know it's a woman...
but look at her skills...
     football is hot-wired into a man's head that:
women shouldn't...
i don't care... Alexandria Megan and... something's moving
or something's not moving...

too much history with football hooliganism...
in a time when people are indoctrinated
into what football team they support...
******* club tattoos...
                a grandfather takes his son to a football
match: fanaticism...
and then the father takes the grandson to the football
match: cycle - on repeat...
not all sports... seriously... not all sports...
it just can't be done... otherwise i just switch off...

it's not like girls are inspired by ballerinas or
gymnasts... but apparently some are...
there's nothing inspiring about women football players...
the attendance statistics prove just as much...
it's a niche mentality... pre- or post- feminist?
when is this tirade of a "philosophy" of:

one shoe fits all: unus calceus omnis vicium
going to end?
isn't there one?! feminism ought to be a prefix...
because it's a meat-grinder of ideas...
there's always going to be a counter
to say... existentialism...
there's going to be feminist-existentialism...
the feminist-enlightenment...
the feminist-stoicism...
  the feminist-cynicism...
the feminist-Platonism...
             catch me if you sort of mentality?!

as a teenager i used to dream about women...
i woke up between the ages of 13 and 16
and be like...
Valentine's Day... stop there! coward!
you're brining roses for Janina today...
in art class... Janina became a face i wanted to sketch...
and i did... it was a sketch...
eyes as shapes... the presupposed sclera...
but no pupil and certainly no iris...
peering into a mirror with her as an old woman...
Gemma was another i asked a photograph
off so i could sketch her...

all: worth: jack: ****!
         so i cured myself of woman with women,
with prostitutes...
  now? it should be the song Freebird...
but it's Sweet Home Alabama and me thinking:
cinema *****... a tight ***...
cinema ***** a tight ***...
               i still love... with a grave to distance me
and a "her" apart...
    because if coffee dates are so stupid...
if art gallery and cinema dates are so stupid...
i'm not willing to pay for food and a maybe...
go straight down the river and pay for the ***...
at least: chances are...
she might like you so much
that she'll let you try ******* for the very first
time aged 36...  and you're like...
well that was ****... i'll gladly return
to my cup of coffee and a cigarette for...
this snorting paracetamol is doing **** all for me...

AND I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT
WHAT I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT...
thank you... Thomas Bunce... my English teacher:
he used to teach English via way of digression...
what grammar i handle is my own self-taught...
he had the principle:
if you can write like you speak... you're good to go...
but... he didn't really state that:
you can also write like you think:
and never speak like you think...
which is why writing is a two-edged sword...
i don't even know how to write like i speak:
i write like i think...
and i never speak like i think...
so writing is a "third-man" dimension of me...

HELL... I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT
WHAT I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT...
maybe now: here's my chance...
yes... it begins with the Roman poets' overtones
of conversation, casual:
nothing modern: over-exasperated
performance propaganda related:
western-leftist ideology:
      i come from a sturdy stock...
it took **** Germany and Soviet Russian
longer to conquer Poland than it took
**** Germany alone to conquer France...

and? i have no sympathy for the Ukrainians...
zilch... their Cossack uprising undermined
the concept that was the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth...
you can only take so much...
Swedes from the north...
the Ottoman Turks from the south...
  German mercenaries from the west...
Russian tickling from the east...
                IF it was so ******* bad?
you get what you deserved... no?
that's why i will never get a tattoo on my body...
i have plenty of historical dates
to be mindful of...
          1648 - the Khmelnytsky uprising...
what?! in England people celebrate one date in
particular... 1066...
weird date to remember and celebrate...
while all prior Viking invasions failed...
  this Viking invasion actually succeeded...
and it's... ******* celebrated...
                    i remember when i was wronged:
not when i was conquered...
or at least a fraction of me...

                  I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT WHAT
I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT!

digression... the best momentum for writing:
and drinking...
but of course i know what drinking alone
does to people...
my grandfather, my best friend...
the man i went foraging for mushrooms with...
the man i went cycling with to the lakes...
the rivers... the man i walked our Alsatian
with... the man i played golf with...
the men i went sight-seeing Cracow:
Warsaw? cool name... probably beats
Bangkok... it's a saw-of-war...
                      who went fishing with me at am...
he was an alcoholic...
me? i charge my drinking into writing...
i drink and i write...
i contain the beast...
   he didn't... he drank for the sake of drinking...
i remember him ******* his trousers...
behaving like a lunatic... he couldn't keep control...
me? i have an elephant's memory...
someone tells me i did something...
i usually have written proof: no i didn't...
i was writing: THIS...
alcoholism is painful if you don't have a creative
output... i wouldn't recommend alcoholism
to anyone who doesn't have any outlet in
writing or painting...
i did an NVQ 2 course concerning crowd safety:
oh man... the return to the formality
of language to gain some bogus qualification...
drinking while taking this course
would be painful: the unoriginality of language
was unbearable...
but i wept through it....
   "wept"...

I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT WHAT I WANTED
TO WRITE ABOUT!
when is this digress mechanism going to end...
is there a PRESS: THE END button anywhere?!

i'll try to pretend...
that this is the end...

                                                 right... breath... a long:
carrying breath... both body and soul...
   ambo corpus et anima... et spiritus-visus...

come 3am i ought to be sleeping...

so... i came across the garden come 11pm...
needing to be fed water...
i wish i owned cattle... flowers are plenty...
Sim... one door down came out...
with a black bag... how many rats did you kills?
i killed about 5... perhaps 6...
a narrative starting running in my mind...
i thought he thought: who's watering that garden
tonight? oh... it's Matthew...
it's not Miroslav...

                                   i drank a Beck's... smoked
a cigarette... started to water the garden in the cool
cold night of repose...
right...                 problem...
            i should have been a painter...
            the Walter Sickert exhibition really impressed me...
the early works and the nudes...
who isn't impressed by a painter's nudes?
so i'm watering the garden... a light comes on in
the bathroom of my neighbours' house one door down...

what's that term? for the glass? used in bathrooms?!
obscured... obscuring glass...
as if glass and water mingled...
or as if glass and water and air and fog were mingling...
i could see a shape...
at first i thought: oh ****... it's their mother...
but then i waited for a while...
the... the... i don't purposively "forget" nouns...
some nouns are just not practical:
i'm not about to use them!
  Heidegger's hammer metaphor shouldn't be solely
concerning: two labourers talking about philosophy
while labouring...
it should also be concerning:
two intellectual forgetting nouns...
allocating sign-language to explain...
that fidgety-"thing"... you know... i know?!
they... close door... language anti-verb all hieroglyphic
noun! OWL = NIGHT OPEN SLEEP....
that sort of *******...

        i'm drinking and i'm ***** again...
the glass used for windows of toilets...
what's her name again? i know she's Indian...
that's tragic... i have an oyster's spot of Indian and Turkish girls...
there comes a madness i can't control...
i hyper-focus on raven hair...
i used to hyper-focus on blonde hair:
enough blonde-hair rejections cured me of my childhood
past... now? i just own a blonde moustache...

in the gilded cage of the glass that's used for bathroom
windows...
she looked like a big girl...
at first i thought i was looking at her mother
washing herself... but then again: the "LUFCZIK"
was wide open... after she took her shower
she started pandering herself... applying cream
to her body... she raised her hands up...
ah... the most ****** aspect of a woman's body:
her hands...
i tend to look at a woman's hand's first...
hello: handshake-Geisha...
i count the arithmetic of knuckles...
girl: you must be missing my pinky knuckle...
i see... by the size of either of your hands
that i have the index, the middle and the ring fingers...
but you're missing the pinky extension...

clever Ovid: i might be envious of the "esteem"
of other men... but in your hands...
i'm: normal...
     "expected"....
                    i was supposed to water the garden...
i was... watering the garden...
but i took breaks...
it wasn't a pretty outline...
she looked like a ++ girls... bulging...
a beached whale type... contorts of her *******
as she detailed them with hand movements
making it necessary for them to be nurished
with moisture...
                   of cream of coconuts...
               this Sikh girl is my kind of stuffing...
i'll go mad for anything with her sort of
olive-complexion... with raven hair...
with eyes that discuss the origins of
                               the Sahara desert as:
once upon a time being an extensive mountain range...

i succumbed to a: pinguis-caput...
   fat head...
                 a headache without a headache...
my head was bulging...
                what's caput in ******?
that's it!
                   that's what it means...
so i'm watching her...
what do i see... her hands raised...
tender little Geisha "oopses"...
silver bracelet... to boot...
this glass is not a mirror...
                         contorts of her hair...
her torso... i best have been born a painter...
her ******* as she olives up...
i get drunk on the mere idea of drinking...

she looks like a big girl in the glass...
that's supposed to not invite onlookers...
i shouldn't be the one watering the garden...
not when she's taking a shower...
she's taking for ages...
i can wait...

           and she looks purposively:
she's pressing her ******* and ***
against the glass...
                                  it's like the universe
inverted upon itself, no?
i don't feel inclined to ingest
more hard-core *******...
i'm seeking subtler "stuff"...
                          something more mythical...
hide a naked body behind a strange glee
of glass... but just expose the hands...
the hands of a woman...
            modern ******* is a turn-off for me...
i'm always wanting to turn today
Italian classics... this modern "****"?
there's no float, there's no boat...
it's all sink... sink... sink...

                i was watering the flowers!
but she took almost 40 minutes out of my life
oiling herself!
                i'm thinking: the love of a brother for her sister...
when your sister is unwanted by other men....
and you need to find... an outlet: equivalent of
the qualification of man: to accept your sister?!

it takes me 1 litre of whiskey to fall asleep...
but i need to write first... concentrate...
my grandfather was an alcoholic too...
but... he didn't write under the influence...
           i can't imagine drinking without writing...
without...
            my god... her ******* seem so enlarged...
her torso... i wish i were a painter...
thank god there's no painting in existence
concerning what i saw...
mein! mein alles! my! my all!

at least my garden is illuminated...
all demons welcome...
                                      i don't even think i can
ever be "bored": i'm just the best "side" of...
"soaked" in what's exacting: soaking...
            a bite into an orange...
a bite into a watermelon...
                                      a wetted beard is easier
to brush with a comb...
                                    cats don't behave like dogs
should you have a rat problem.

He said, "if the girlies don't work out"
To come back here

And get **** faced

And maybe watch some bad movies
Like Predator 2

Past security, ticket given without a second glance
It could've been any old white piece of paper

But he didn't check.
Why wouldn't he check?

Inside are the real predators
The real commodifiers

Who stalk prey called women
Look at the way they look at you

Do you notice the way they look at you?
Or is it like breathing air, or a fish in water

And do you buy into the predator's worldview?
What do you really see when you look at the self?

Only what others see, perhaps?
I understand that

In the car, on the ride here
He said, "I'm looking for something special"

"I don't **** and get out"
But definitely don't stop calling them *******

The culture says who they are,
Rather, the culture says what they are

You are complicit in the culture
Just like me

A stoic face toward oppressors
Is still complacent

A face that prides itself on not objectifying women
Yet lays silent in their objectification,

Isn't he just the problem?
Aren't I that problem?

And the songs that are as unspecial as the ***
You purport to not want

Boom louder than your heartbeat
That you can't tell if it's the bass or the blood

Pulsing through your veins

How do you know what you want isn't real?
Are you oblivious to the remake, the unoriginality?

Like the songs stolen without rights,
You adopt your predecessors' predatory propensities

It's all *******.
That's what our glasses are full with.

The Irish drink to connect
We drink to waste away

The same way we do when we sit
And become one with our couch

At the heart of the Ire-land
Is a history of conflict

And inability to have conflict,
Also known as: war

So they sit and they drink
And they talk and they fight

And they all have bad livers
But their hearts aren't clogged.

But back in the club, there's a one size fits all video
Playing over the one size fits all songs

Catered to the one size fits all people
And our one size fits all pallets

In the blur of the headbanging and the deafening
We lose our precious individuality

But maybe I'm acting too pious to judge as I do
But, if you were in my shoes, wouldn't you?

.i don't need to be believed to have to write this ****; mind you, in the past, the best things about h'america was the cultural exports, following the whole made in china "affair", but the cultural export was there... right now? socio-political commentary, which is like weilding to accomplish transversing a desert.

i can't say that my
         experience with "god"
was ever good,
          when it happened:
   hazy, 12 years ago,
it wasn't some sort of epiphany...
far from it...
if aristotle says:
philosophy begins with awe...
granted...

   then at least, whatever this is,
begins with a: fear of "god"...
it's not like you suddenly
get a cult following,
   or brand yourself
a mouthpiece...
     i heard a choir,
i had an iPod with me,
turned it on / off during
the "experience"...
then started running around
an empty church,
before hearing
   a grand wind of dispersion...
****, it could have come
from either "up" or "down"...
but it wasn't a "fun" experience...
what...
   much later...
   trying to sell the experience
off?
        conundrum crux...
false prophets,
or whatever you want to call them,
wouldn't mind bypassing
secular standards of acceptance,
amassing a throng
akin to the jonestown massacre...
i know, i know,
people need something to believe in,
i don't have that luxury...
i didn't experience a person,
that.... that wasn't some intimate
experience where i would dare
to utter a single question,
expecting an answer...
        mute...
                    that was me...
eversholt rd., st. mary's church,
opposite the royal mail group
building...

   i mean, how do you even
come up with some sort of explanation
to the, "experience",
as if it would ever be a "good" thing,
start a cult and ****...
with all the benefits:
but once you're dead...
   and then the waiting game
of life, no life,
attached to a fixation
   of theological jurisprudence,
or rather...
succumbing to:
what "sane" people take for
certainty, belief as a motivational
tool, a boost to free will...
back on earth:
peope are "confused" about
their ***, or ****** preferences...
me? i have to do a juggling act
around something,
that i find people being too comfortable
about...

      you don't get a "1st prize"
for this sort of encounter...
you get... precisely: jack ****...
you receive a momentum
to alleviate belief...
   with a doubling of doubt...
yes, after the experience...
you begin to career in doubt...
you look at the priests
and, remain, bewildered...
         trauma...
  maybe just a scenario of testing
sensitivity...
           was i lost?
was it the marijuana:
   such simple explanations had
no affect on me...
well... if only sober,
judge-strict people had that
sort of experience...

   a ******* choir descended as i lay
under a side altar of st. mary's church
wrapped in a white altar cloth...
thinking would be somehow
claustro-phobia-****** and
absolutely no freedom...
    if people are boasting...
i didn't even hear a word,
   but a menacing presence
that dispersed the choir...
back to the gavin mcinnes criticism
of Islam...
   (a) is the quran a problem
    (b) the prophet being a warlord
  (c) inbreeding...
   but there's a (d) aspect...
  why do muslims have no
fear of god?!
   muslims don't have a fear of god...
maybe reading some
of h. p. lovecraft
will be sobering...
   and i'm drunk,
while talking about sobering points...
**** me...

       muslims do not
allow themselves a fear of (their) god...
punching-bag take it all,
     the sins of the past,
up until the age of 21,
everything seemed orientating,
after the age of 21:
disorientated as if after
a tarantula bite...
              jewish-sucker-punch
or what?
             if everyone, sober,
sane,
   had the capacity to experience
"god", well, that would "somehow"
clarify things,
but it's certainly no standard
of crafting excuses,
there are still secular sensibilities
to be minded...
      i kept my mouth shut,
because i presupposed that there
would be, no chance for kudos,
free rides,
a pope-esque stature...

      then would come the atheists...
and that would take
the core reason of argument...
resembling something
akin to playing football...
without a ball...

              good riddance...
given the experience, i allowed myself
   i somehow managed to sustain it...
but the burden, the inability to
provide factual evidence,
akin to a schizophrenic experiecing
suspicious "whispers" in his "ear"...
how many stoners can you find
that experience
   these sort of "delusions"...

esp. after being indocrinated
via a catholic pedagogy?
how many paedohpile clerics of
the collar?
                carte blanche on the whole
affair of the protruding larynx?
the tonsure is in now way
elevating the concept of the kippah?
i also have a fear:
the fear of plagiarißing someone,
originality can only serve me
to find a debased stature of "sin"...
i drink to calm myself,
i visited prostitutes
   to get away from
                  the harangue of women...

best fwend (" "), a blank piece of paper,
but i see sane people making complaints
about revising the existence of
asylums,
   while i just keep thinking
about digging a hole,
  and planting a cherry tree,
     the "orthodox" madmen are
willing to experience
   a hard-on when it comes
to the mildly insane...

                 while the whole world,
eh, *****-nilly, simply, "happens"...
for someone who has seen
how his freedom,
has been translated from
a physical reality,
to a metaphysical cut-off little richard
and replaced with a strap-on...
   whatever depth i was supposed
to be given in an expansion allowance,
this is it,
  i've heard the zenith,
but now comes the nadir...
       disguised solipsism,
this whole
   self-determination lock,
mild autism,
or whatever you want to call it...
   irreplaceable
   irreplaceability complexes...
the current day-to-day theatre of
society...
     and the sobering after-thought
of having to attend a funeral...

last time i attended one,
it was my great-grandmother...
i refused to throw a rose
into her grave...
   then some funeral-crasher...
a woman,
decided it was necessary
   to speak up against me...
what was it that she said?
    right... now i remember:
'oh, isn't he generous!'
strangling her wasn't on my mind,
but now, it is...
              it's much easier
to forget egoism,
when you have phantoms of visage
                          to strangle...

of course i didn't throw that rose
into her grave,
i spent a few hours
after the drunken wake
thinking about her,
           gritting my teeth
until i managed to grind
a chip of one of the teeth,
and gently playing with a candle...
until the rose started to
turn purple,
    from its deep centered
  burgundy.

life...
            i'm seriously past
making a theological debate,
or an atheistic counter argument...
as if there's a god,
and he's a pervert...
   an existential ******...
i don't think that's how it works...
the simplest answer,
is that of an atheist,
who takes the worst
of man, and ascribes
it to a god entity... which is...
                                          alien;
as kant prescribed...
working from all the phenomena
that can be explained...
if there's only one god,
"it" is a noumenon...
                                    a per se...

i pray i can leave this place,
knowing less,
than what i arrived here with,
demanded to know more
and more, and some more...
          ****...
lapsing into a bed,
that seemingly perpetual
placebo of sleep,
   death,
                      it's no more
a haunting presence,
than having to spar
a friendship with nothing more,
than your own shadow...

            brief human interactions
will justify
   this lapse of making
      sound scrutiny of
"friendships";
   how else, to find a rare
variant of happiness...
        when stating
                              a grievance?

the toll: of the awaiting fact
of one's own mortality,
death is no more a worry
than the mortal fact -

death-locker...
    as much an original sin,
as the unoriginality
of the concept of free will...
individuation...
           then yeah...
the "original" sin is a misnomer
for the casual sprechen
of plagiarism;
but humans will not deviate
from the temptation,
of imitating others,
i guess... its a paradox...
of being indoctrinated
into a brief interlude of pedagogy.

for me, the most perfect combination of superheroes is, Bruce Wayne & David Dunn - i.e. Batman & the Unbreakable respectively... i had a childhood friend once, big on Spiderman... he asked me the same question, who is your favourite superhero... that's way before the film Unbreakable came out... i said Batman... why? he asked... because he's a superhero... but he has not super-powers... but i think i sided with Batman because, from the age of 4 through to the age of 8 i was raised by my grandparents... the whole economic migration "thing" from the upcoming fall of the Soviet empire & its satellites uprooted a lot of people, not to mention: it ******* uprooted manufacturing jobs everywhere, and the metallurgy industry... people were, moved... rough patch for my grandparents too, grandfather was the most perfect grandfather, but he also drank... my grandmother was a ***** to him... i think it only took one broken arm by being pushed through a glass door... something like that... not as bad as the case with my father, though... abandoned by his parents, altogether, raised by his authoritarian grandmother & her second husband... yeah... superheroes... well if i don't have a devil in my shadow i'd probably like to think i have an amalgam of Bruce Wayne & David Dunn... why? David Dunn isn't rich, he's humble, yet he has tremendous genes, almost paranormal qualities... plus a wife and a son... Bruce? well... we all know what he has... money... blah blah... the freedom being... freed from having parents... imagine that freedom... esp. if this freedom is coupled with having inherited everything from them... no care for lineage... no care for the family name... marry these two characters together, though... like me... i have money: but i also don't have money... i only remember having dislocated my thumb, once... i rarely fall prey to colds or any other discomfort... beside itchy feet from standing too long in one space...

get me away from this transcription *******! get me away!
i would have found it easier to be a bricklayer
than having to copy words of unoriginality:
even though they are much to my liking, since:
they simply elaborate what i was already thinking:
objective thinking is: overrated...
subjective thinking is... not really, or merely...
or simply about "feeling"...
           that subjective thinking is performed by women
to the extent that women use more ciphers
than metaphors (etc.) is one thing...
a woman might say something but imply something
completely opposite...
a man? a man will not use such ciphers...
he will take it upon himself to say something:
not-literally... two of my favourite techniques is...
metaphor & the misnomer...
misnomers are... employed to venture into
the thesaurus... to "mis-direct" or rather to allow someone
to direct themselves to a pseudo-eureka moment...
these days misnomers are encapsulated in
script borrowed from the existentialists...
air-quotes as they're called: to say someone is
"racist" is as much as saying someone is "liberal"...
but doing a transcript? what a ****-show!

- like today, working a shift at the London Stadium,
i'm sorry... but fat black girls have the best sense
of humour... i can be self-deprecating...
but they take it to extreme... this supervisor
was telling us a story about how she started back
in 2012 at the Olympics...
she said she wouldn't be placed pitch-side
on one of those "chairs": stools...
because it would take about 10 people to put
her on the stool... & about 10 people to get her up...
otherwise any attempt would look like
a beached whale salvage operation...
fair enough... if a plump black girl (woman)
can joke like that... it's self-deprecating but it's
also endearing...
i'm endeared by her honesty...
black women should do more stand-up comedy...
but...
if i'm supposed to be working... with these...
lanky... Somali colts... these boys who only
want to work but only end up watching
the match: rather than watching the crowd...
i get *******... first half in...
the gangway was getting blocked...
i was downstairs ensuring no one brought alcohol
in view of the pitch...
i made the decapitation gesture:
**** it, i.e. drink up... i told them:
no more alcohol for away fans after kick-off...
so some decided to take the extra glug-glug...
fair enough... how many ******* times was i asked
where they could smoke? enough...
one even asked me... where's the betting shop...
the, ******* what?! betting shop?!
can't you do that online these days?
must have been an addict, blocked from placing
bets online...

these... skinny... Somali kids are supposed to...
deal with some of these Yorkshire beefcakes?
pumped up & ready to rumble?
o.k., i don't mind minorities...
but the ones i've since worked with:
are ******* clueless zombies...
camels designate more respect by spitting on you...
clueless, little, *******...
a gust wind could ******* K.O. them...
you're putting these little ***** on the away stand...
and they're only there, to what... watch the ******* game?
at 12:36 i left my post... below the stair...
the ******* gangway was constipated with people
who left their seats...
like... ha ha... Moses i parted the sea of people...
i have so little authority in this hierarchy of
crowd management...
no... authority i do have... hierarchical...
i don't even know the word for it... "sentiment"?
bombast? the expression:
pushing your weight around... even though
you don't have the weight to push anyone around with...
just an empty status clink...
a sort of security netting: people think they
achieve a certain level in a hierarchy and
they immediately think that...
the hierarchy is... hierarchal... that there will not
be an upset from bottom-up...
that hierarchy is all about the top-down
mechanisation of authority...

don't you know that work, done properly,
relieves you from... being entertained?!
arbeit macht frei! *******!
i hate working along slobs, i hate working alongside
idle *****! Somalis come across as these people
who sit around all day expected to be fed!
like zoological creatures:
like, **** knows what...

i was probably one in a hundred of the white
face available at the London stadium...
how far is Leeds from Rotherham?
i know the two are in Yorkshite... sorry... York-SHIRE...
40min... circa 36 miles...
boys... pints end here: non-verbal communication
with the hand slicing off the head...
about four of the most innocent beauties pretending to
smoke via vaping... once or twice: pass...
third time... noticed them... said no-no
by moving my head from side to side...

what, ******* authority am i, if i only exert the power
to don a high-viz. shirt?!
for, ****'s sake... up the gangway doing some
colt-mother-******'s job... oi!
you're not here to watch the ******* match:
you ******* silly ****!

how many times was i approached...
too many... where's the bathroom, can i smoke,
can i get a beer... thist pumping...
what team do you support...
if i were able... in the sacrifice of the absence of people:
i might have worked miracles in carpentry...
all i have now is a sea of people...
but i'm used to it...
go into a graveyard at night...
go into a forest... or... go into a crowd of people:
same ****... different cover...

i just said no-no with my head moving sideway
and i was obeyed...
sorry... but from where i'm coming:
applying Heidegger's dasein...
there-being... not there's being i.e. per se,
sure... i'm there... looking out for people...
but when i return home and take to drinking some
whiskey... it's almost forever a second job...
esp. when i can scrutinise people not doing theirs!

let me rephrase that:
ich würde machen das makellose schutzstaffelmann...
how? perception is key...
i'll ensure my black tie is visible...
if i find some "flea" of feather or dirt
on my attire i'd pinch it off... if m shoes are
*****... i'll stand on one foot and rub the shoe against
my trousers...

and how i love to watch the women in the audience...
as much as watching women i love to watch
the children... while their fathers get drunk i'm
the sobering walk-about presence...
even today i felt a penetrating gaze of a boy:
somewhat embarrassed by his father drinking too much...
his eyes implored me to comfort him somewhat:
obviously i didn't... but you can: READ people...
you can READ them...
as they see you: is as they read you...
that's the authority of perception...
whether conjured up by Louis XIV or not...

again, the same coworker insinuated that i might want
to hold her hand... toxic... she only disclosed that she
drank half a bottle of brandy prior to the event...
i drank a bottle of whiskey... but i didn't say...
please don't tell me you want to hold my hand...
did i outstretch my hand and ask her to hold it?
i insinuated to her a cusp... folded my arm in a way
that i could put my hand in my pocket and she
could put it in the hole... well... if you're asking
but not taking up the offer?! *******!

- it's hardly racist for the Yorkshire beefcakes
to approach me, i'm friendly... they're friendly...
why aren't they approaching the "minorities"...
i have this love-hate relationship with the English...
i love living among them, i hate...
i hate being supposed to be one of them...
i took this language as my own...
i don't expect my version of this language
to be reflective of their: inheritance...
i'm not even going to urbanise it... slang it...
i'm familiar... Yorkshire beefcakes will approach me
because: i look familiar...
timid ******* Somalis... tools! tools!
it's the familiarity that keeps us awake...
while i was busting my nuts doing the job of two people...
this *******... urgh... was just standing there
watching the match... i wanted to *****-slap him
so bad that he might return donning a ******* turban
pretending to be a Sikh!

in all honesty? i want the majority of people to be lazy,
i want them to have zombie brains...
i don't need them to be aware of anything within
the confines of this existence beside themselves...
i need them that way... not personally: just generally...
i need them to be pedestrians in my life experience...
they need to simply occupy a threshold of
existence that would otherwise be filled with
an "absence": but given their, ahem, "rigorous"
approach to life... not much difference...
my shadow could do more than they attempt to do:
this glorified: i'm entitled to life approach...

disposable creatures: thing-things...
i doubt they even think, i doubt they think because
i doubt they even possess the faculty to see...
to hear... speaking is an obstacle to them
saying good afternoon to ticket holders is,
somehow, exclusively, "beyond them"...

again: i'm working around the parameters of
Heidegger's dasein... there-being...
i'm there, i'm "there", like i'm hiersein...
i'm here, i'm "here"...
or... "i'm" here...
but not really... thinking gives me flight...

gedanke wort von flügel!

ist hier: da?!

if you knew me, music is everything, you'd see.
an innate instinct that spins me in circles from one instrument to the next.
i have an ocean of notes to dive into headfirst. to create myself while swimming in this world of unoriginality.

if you knew me, you'd see,
the world gets into my head and there i go off the edge.
my mind at the mercy of what should be my least worry.
the people yell. the people scream. it's my soul that takes a harsh beating.
mind sinks. limbs tremble. who would catch my fall?

i know who.
my fall is caught by the resonance of rhythm. by the peaceable pitch. by the sophisticated sound. by a resounding chord that strikes meaning. my fingers flow along the sea of white and black keys. my mind consumed with memorized melodies. when the weight of the world is too much to carry, it's like coming up for air.