I was hungry enough to eat the **** end of a skunk.  I felt like gobbling the whole mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room.  Make that a quarter. I guess my tummy has had enough grumbling, like a seething network of volcanoes ready to devour Hawaii.  I am sure as exhausted as a zombie after a “battle of life and death” handling a plethora of carpentry tools which I have managed to rummage from our dismal basement.  I’m quite serious with the phrase “battle of life and death”.  I get to have this Obsessive Compulsive Syndrome which gulps a huge amount of my rhythm compelling me to put things in place especially in my chamber.  At times, a weltered pen could instigate an emotional havoc.  Or perhaps an inappropriate collaboration of curtain hues and mattresses would be ample to spin the color wheel concept out of my brain.  But now, my walls have done it.  Well, it was just a microscopic sight of a divine crevice, but how in the world could that escape my eyes?  Without a second thought, I approved an avid proposal from my subconscious – a full concrete room renovation.  And that’s how it brings me here, smothering the last square inch of the genius blueprint with this porridge of lime and clay, the hell with chemistry!  I have found out that my room has achieved the piquancy of a sizzling summer noon, thanks to the mist of dust and the precipitating drops of sweat that come tingling down my overheating body.  Ah! At least my system tells me that I’m not a promising patient of ****** dysfunction.  When the last patch has been perfectly planed in place, I drew my last ounce of pure strength and plunged into my most formidable bed, congratulating myself for a job well done. Alas! A thirty-minute nap and I’m ready for a superb coffee and doughnut delight.

I woke up from a cat’s screech. I peeped through the window. The nap breaker was a Cheshire, one with a dimmer fur, the stripes of gray suppressing the darker color.  Its tail enjoyed dancing around its rear, connoting either fear or excitement. It sure has a distinctive mischievous grin.  The feline was on the verge of climbing up the roof by jumping from a gutter about five feet away.  It seemed to have slipped but has managed to bring its **** next to the roof tiles. It stared at me with intent, giving me the macabre look from its glaring eyes.  It’s as if I’m being watched, stalked and examined in a way I couldn’t see, bringing me that feeling of guilt, of remorse.  Urgh! That’s why I hate cats.  Though I’m planning to keep one, I’ll reconsider it.  But what pains me more is to discover that my alarm was not able to do the job and so I slept three hours more than planned.  I looked down and saw the city lights flashing one by one, the beams glowing like a barrier of radiance diffusing into the gloom of the night. I guess this was the price I have to pay. I traded my snack with a peaceful hibernation, turning the coffee into a glass of iced tea and the doughnut into a great dinner with me, myself and I.

I have learned to cook since I was ten.  My mother believed that culinary prowess could be inherited from generation to generation.  And so, she put her trust on me and I haven’t failed her ever since.  This gourmet brilliance proves to be very useful at times of solitude when you got bored of ordering other’s recipes and decided to make your own buffet.  I remembered her telling me that all food would taste good if there is the chef’s heart flavored in it.  Cooking is an art, combining the loops and the whoops of seasonings and spices to the medley of meat and herbs.  Tonight, I decided that my dinner would equal breakfast, satisfying the grudge that I got from skipping my  diabetic snack attack.  A beef stew and a side of paella made my stomach die in joy, appeased at last that my gears are energized for my routinely nocturnal bookworming activity.

I normally hide under my sheets at nine but tonight, I shall break the rules. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll fix the rules next time. Just this time to spare for I have gained interest on this book entitled “100 Years of Solitude”, talking about how one could live happily even alone, just by creating the world you have ever dreamed of. Gabriel García Márquez is dumping the “no man is an island” concept which anyway sounds inspiring to me.  Finally, I jumped into bed thanking Him for letting me outrun another day living alone in a comfortable apartment, free from all sorts of vexation.  I wished for a better life at school, which gives me an imagery of dull monochromatic memories.  I am not that famous but I can be someday.

A heavy beam of sunlight pierced through my window, refracting on the ***** white floor and creeping up to the mahogany table just right at the corner.  It intercepted with the glass pyramid and created a beautiful prism that glittered all around my room.  It was a really majestic scenery, one that I luckily happen to see every morning, a good optic background, I guess. Two hours before class time – that’s where my pattern starts.  Take a bath, eat, brush teeth, groom, check the doors and power, then I’m off to go. Everybody follows a certain kind of pattern, that’s for sure. Whether you wear different types of clothes everyday or use competing brands of toothpaste, clothes are clothes and toothpastes are toothpastes.  As humanity finds more and more complexities in life, they become wired to doing the things and involving the events which they think would give happiness to them and simplify their equation of life.

As a proof, there’s Mrs. Lanny Honeycut from the house next door. She usually sprinkles her daisies every ten in the morning, wearing that friendly neighborhood smile. On their patio, you could never miss a day seeing her husband, Mr. Blake Honeycut reading the daily papers with a round of tea, jam and bread spread on his table.  On the busy intersection stands traffic enforcer, Red Mayer, waving his arms to and fro while wearing that aura of valor, never seem to get tired of doing the same thing over and over again. Thousands go out for work and go back to sleep everyday and that's the status quo we're talking about. Even inside the academic arena, you can still hold on to that thought; I mean the size of the population doing the same pattern at the same time – my schoolmates, enemies and… friends? Well, I’m not quite sure with the last one, but it’s this: they all make a fun of me.  They say I’m a dork, a nerd, a geek, a freak, and etc.  I wonder if they mean everything that they say or say everything that they mean.  Either way you put it, I’m not buying it. I am not what they say I am.  I just like being alone and that’s where I do best.

And as always, the school is crowded with busy people rushing through the corridors. Others are beating the deadlines while some are happy they could breathe for another break. But no matter how busy everybody could be, there is always a time spent for “information dissemination” or chitchats. But only this time, the topic discussed is the same.  I could hear it on the entire campus, everywhere in the perimeter. Another student in the university is missing leaving no trace of existence.  It’s been going on like this for over two months now and the university council has taken their best courses of action to unknot this mystery while campaigns have been running on TV’s and vigils were spent. Not that I don’t care but it seems that this is also happening to other places, I mean, this is not the only school where maniacs could exist and become professional serial rapists in the making. By the way, this is already the 12th case on the record. Weren’t people overreacting to the issue? Isn’t the case overrated? Did they reject the possibility that these people ran away because they got pregnant, messed up or something like that? Soon, the university area was covered with security troops roaming around like a swarm of bees, buzzing and sometimes boozing all the time.

I guess that’s what happens when you hang out too much with friends who are just jesters plotting your own jeopardy. I don’t think it would be good at all to be bothered with things like that because sometimes, it’s also useful not to have any use at all.  Like the king being admired by his kingdom amidst his sloth and compromises.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not friendly anymore. Actually, if it happens that I got company, I would magnanimously offer a treat at my place.  But the thing is, who would likely do that? I’d cross my fingers on it.

Wishes do come true even for a loner like me.  I think I have a fan. No, that would be too sublime. She’s hot and she’s hotter when you’ll know she’s so cool. Quite a paradox, but that’s just reality.  We came to know each other on our lab class. Her name’s Athena, fitting for her twisted logic and good humor. It makes me burn a lot of calories when I talk to her more than a 5-mile marathon could squirt. We were lab partners and we get along well. I just couldn’t figure out where she got the courage to befriend me. I do regard myself as unwelcoming species, but I might work on it when someone tries to knock the door. We juxtapose ideas. Yes, that’s what makes our conversations spin like a merry-go-round. But we enjoy it nevertheless, evident by the crescent smile we both generate out of the craziest topics in store. Once, she interrogated my way of settling wars with enemies. Well, I told her it was my habit of treating them to my house and giving them souvenirs to show how sorry I could be. She snickered and her eyes glowed like the Andromeda and her face shun the whole universe. Oh, I can do this all day long, if only I got hold of time and space.

Today, she asked me if it would be okay if she’ll stay at my place till nine when her dad could be home and she would be able to call her and ask to pick her up. She reasoned out that otherwise, the night would be scary because she’ll be alone in their house, no company, no security. I was puzzled how the thought of being alone could scare her. It is like freedom from any constraints, no ties, and no limits. But I couldn’t blame her. She’s too fragile, too vulnerable to handle it with herself.  With the speed of the light, I accepted the favor.  Well, that goes even without saying.

It was past six thirty when we arrived at my immaculate apartment. It’s great to be an“ OC” sometimes, I said to myself.  I thought of a winner dinner, one that would make her visit worth reminiscing. I preferred Italian.  I cooked her lasagna and drenched the dinner with sherry. We talked a lot until we run out of resorts. I guess she planned it, or I planned it, synergy perhaps.

The clock ticked nine and there’s no sight of her father’s getaway car. But there’s no sign of worry in her countenance either. I surmise it didn’t reach her inkling yet to phone her dad.  She was busy dissecting my kitchen and living room with her very playful eyes. That doesn’t trouble me though. That’s just as instinctive as any other first time guest could get. She grappled her attention on my antique collection of prehistoric movies, like the Scarlet Letter, The count of Monte Cristo and the likes. She happened to love them too. Well, that makes her more beautiful to me, other than the satin white dress she wears. Suddenly, she got the impulse of going to my room. She said there’s nothing more exciting to see than a gentleman’s bedroom. I startled from the request, but before I could say anything, she leaped straight to my chamber with the gestures of an imp. It’s weird to be in this kind of circumstance because I don’t often invite a lot of visitants to my room. I ain’t no hotel crew, bowing down and waving his hand to the chamber’s destination and leading the VIPs to their cabins. Yet this time, it’s the other way around: it’s my cabin.

But now it’s too late to stop her. She molested the **** and I giggled for some reason. Finally, the door opened a crack and a bend of light escaped from inside. She stepped in, and I followed. She was filled with awe not because my room is all made of gold nor did it resemble a royalty’s den. It was the exaggerated neatness and order that greeted her. In some unknown vortex of my deepest imagining, it made me feel like I’ve been through this instance before. The flashback is not so vivid as it appears, but something tells me this isn’t the first time. Deja vu could be working on it, I infer,although I don’t really believe in those forms of conceptualizations. Perhaps it’s the sherry’s spell infiltrating my mental prognosis. But something, I guess, isn’t really right.

I caught her opening a red box that was hidden behind my cabinet. I tried to steal it away from her but she fought back and it came tossing down the floor. Numerous items spilled from the case. A purple head band with the glittering initials ANNE, a ruby embedded bracelet, and a Nokia handy phone exposed the secrecy. This isn’t going to go along well and fine, I guess. A strong surge of desire came from my core. It tried to envelop my entirety and control me like a lifeless puppet. I felt the tip of the pyramid glass in my hand and I succumbed to lose my consciousness.

Morning came and it felt better than ever. It was a ***** Saturday. There she lies beautifully on the deck, like an immortal bud of red rose trapped in golden amber. The cellophane fits her well, and there’s no doubt she’ll be complaining anymore. I already prepared a cozy place for her deep sleep: A 5x2 feet wall engravement which I was busy molding last night. It wasn’t easy making her go to bed but still it ended up smooth and sound. I helped her get up and fitted her in place.I turned on the radio as I reached for my dear carpentry tools. The news was still nailed on it. But this time, the missing case struck for the 13th turn. Ahh, the hell with society! They never really get a way to deal with it.

I was busy patching the last mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room. Make that a quarter. I guess there’s no end to this divine crevice issue. It must be following a pattern too. But I can handle it, thanks to this vicarious personality. I wonder if I could get the chance to invite another visitor in my place. But if I do, I would certainly offer the best treatment they could ever have.

'i've only ever really read one poem. i, i have to admit.*  
You know, that, that one poem that everyone’s read, whatsit,
Howl by Ginsberg, 'best-minds-of-my-generation-destroyed-by-madness,-starving-hyste­rical-naked,' , yeah, that one;'
'It's just, I identify with it so strongly.' she says,
'That poem is soo me.'
It's funny how commentary on a generation 60 odd years ago come across as timeless insights..
how we learn that true spirit of rebellion and counterculture three generations ago,
  as it is taught to us by two generation ago countercounterculture academics.
but I guess, inevitably
                                         we
                                                  return,
  to those half drowned pontifications inevitably decried into transcendental truth by the onward spilling ratchet of cultural recognition;
  that sense of universal oneness generated by the unwashed ramblings of beat-generation hipsters dense innuendo in run on sentences running, running from their upper-lower-middle-class New York homes and their privilege of true vacant meaninglessness and despair,
   to those nervous tucked in shirted clean shaven scholars swooning over the same seme drugged, melancholic bearded men profussing the deepest of opaque truths only found up the furthest reaches of their own *****.
  As we push through to our lectures, the mosaic in motion of blazer wearing mac-users and mac-pac wearing blazers,
  As we hysterically interpret the formatting conditions for our reports, which could hang in the balance of whether the dreams we once had will ever be actualised,
  As we felt lost and found and found and lost at those park benches under the stars, where occasional strangers strolled by offering sessions and life-stories,
  As we paid exorbitantly to get out of our parents homes, and into tin-can flats with broken windows, absentee landlords and cracked paint only held together by all the moss, (the empowerment that is wage slavery,) for in our youth, poverty is not an ever-present pejorative, but the rite of passage to show that we are alive,
  As rituals of manhood are defined by two things and two things only; how much insomnia one can accumulate to meet insane and inane deadlines, and how much one can illuminate the walls in ***** from all the beers, spirits, cheap wines and questionable home-brews,
  As the government dismantles the human-rights commission, and we nervously attend the rallies initiated by the radicals, and the man on the megaphone calls on the crowd to chant and we can only mumble and laugh nervously at ourselves,
  And when the next speaker runs onto stage feeling the need to plead to this already nervous, placid mass that this is in-fact a PEACEFUL PROTEST, and that we are all true patriots and they insist everyone start singing the national anthem and we all look down and we again mumble, or pretend somehow not to hear them,
  and when, in this biggest independent rally around a unified cause our generation's ever seen, we have never felt so alone ,
  and isolated,  
                                  we
                                             remember,
                                                                    those earlier days,
  When we'd bleach our hair; we'd poison ourselves white, in the vain mystic hope that this was just the transition period to the time when we'd get true colour into our lives,
  Remember our wonder at the Eurocentric Asiatic television representations of the Abrahamic faiths, given transubstantiated holy revival by the medium of Saturday morning digital pastel pasture; when we were children staring excited and wide eyed into the Metatrons Fire of Sinai 'Random Almighty Mega Damage'; as Dante and the seraph class Tyrant-infused-Michael inevitably made battle with YHWH, -in the one True End,- as we grinded within the monolithic emerald obsidian halls, Mystical wonderment spilling forth from our reddened hollow eyes, at the beautiful unlimited expansive world contained within our console/consoling digital unit discs; conformally mapped and etched into the convex hull of our minds,
  Where we were gods, doing battle with every possible creature in morphospace, filleted into overpriced cards and cartridges, for which our strategies meant so much to us though none of us really understood the game,
  When we could quote verbatim every piece of dialogue in GTA2, and get concerned glances from our parents as we conjured veiled imagery of bukake-ladled innuendo which we didn't really understand until six or seven years later,
  When sexuality was a special secret club our elders and the kids in the years above came across so wise for being a member of, rather than an anti-turing test; a farcical ritual where everyone tries their best to imitate the hyper-reality of MTV while hiding the nervous feelings that this whole thing was really meant for someone other than us,
  When creating a whole new lexicon for our self-hood (be it artistic, ******, political or philosophical) felt like existential emancipation; a transcendental rebellion against the normalising identities and semantics of old, rather than an impenetrable circle-**** taxonomy,
  When one day we'd unveil a new term in some text, and it would completely change our outlook on every corner of our lives,
  Or, the next day, when we'd give up and just sit back on rolling banks, and look out at a veil of stars,
  Or the next day, when we'd wonder desperate and painfully, which of the last two was the real pursuit and which was wasted time? (Or was it this day, the day spent building an illusory dialectic between them?)
  Remember when we were in kindergarden, and you had to pass through the kitchen, -the adults zone,- to get to the toilet, and you'd feel both shame and wonderment listening in of the snippets of conversation muttered by these titanic figures; discussing abstruse issues from the newspaper in foreign yet noble tongues?
  Remember when we were teens, and every form-checking observation and question from these same adults was so painstakingly pedantically banal and asinine, that one could only respond with monosyllabic grunts and silent hysterics?
  And remember as 'young adults', when we'd inevitably entered this same dull Aristotelian world of forms, how we'd ask the same adults for advice on filling these paperworks, at once still asemic gibberish, and at once the fine-print that contained and predicted our lives?
  Remember when our dreams for the future were not bounded by the economy of our grade point averages and just how much debt we were willing to incur
                                …
I've seen the best minds of my generation climb into pre-packaged little boxes; and pay through the teeth for the privilege of doing so.  
  Akin to a 'Howl' they call it? Our cry for selfhood? What a scream.
It's not even a cry. Barely a whimper.
More of a zombified groan, completely aware our intrepid Journey of Self is just a pricey guided tour. (Tv Ad's static commodified existential emancipatory platitudes; 'your place in the world' / 'well it's my place and it's my time' urgh.)
And so we march asleep; all lame all blind.
  Trudging through the mind-fields; arguing, unravelling the semantic distinctions between the empty boundaries and the boundaries of emptiness.
  Transcribed down for essay deadlines,  /  assessing our lives trajectory as dead lines,
Becoming increasingly aware,
  We are not the living beings, the dasein, the Übermenschen being actualised; we are the machinery through which the institutions, the factories, the markets and education facilities actualise themselves.
  (While the only acceptable language we can breathe in opposition to these ratcheting pedagogical machines is the lexicon they provide us..
  ('oh, you hate systemic neoliberal alienation; the deestablishment of ontological anthropocentrism? Tell me more about the esoteric uselessness of academic culture.') bluh.)

But

       the more we follow those phantom images we built of ourselves,
the more we become aware they are but sirens; hypnotic dreamlike figures luring us to our doom,
  and as this awareness dawns; and the cognitive dissonances and schizophrenia grows,
       We


                                just try to keep calm and carry on regardless.

Can we really claim the arrogance of having a better path?
The conceit that there's a better cliff we should be guiding ourselves to to top ourselves off?
I don't know,
I reaally
really
just don't know.

I just hope that all of this living will be worth something in the end

K R W

.                    what's the difference between
thieves, and magicians?
not much...
   both have quick hands...
and an awake,
yet asleep public communal
presence...
the thief has a public of
the victim,
         and the c.c.t.v. "stage"...
the magician?
   has a public of the crowd,
and the "dajjal" stage of
a camera replenishing
   a concept of:
  not enough public...
    thieves and magicians are
bedfellows...
you allow one to flourish...
the antithesis will come
along, and in an indiscriminate
fashion...
   allow the "magic" / "thieving"
to take place...
     what is a magician,
a public figure... compared...
to a thief?
       i can't see the difference...
the audience was fooled
by the magician...
the individual was fooled
by the thief...
   are they... so much unlike
each other?
     magicians can own
a theater stage...
thieves, sometimes... just sometimes...
own the, basic...
    pointlessness of english
c.c.t.v. mechanics,
to make police officers make:
a follow-up investigation...
    oh, but i have genius
interrogation practices...
  no one wants to listen to...
like 10 hours straights of listening
to stefan molyneux...
or 48 hours, sleep deprived...
listening to BBC 24 hour news reels...
that ****... could crack anyone...
what the americans did to the Iraqis?
last time i heard...
they blasted the slayer oeuvre
down headphones into their ears...
Americans... feeding conquered
Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre?
BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE!
and didn't the encore come?
******* retards...
  crows feeding seagull chicks
with sinew and
        regurgitated scavenger meat!
if only they played them some
Bach...
    i'm pretty sure...
the Iraqis would still be left...
disorientated...
  but the American army "interrogators"...
ha ha!
   played them the slayer oeuvre!
WEE-TARDS!
anyone... and i mean anyone:
will relieve themselves as being
"tortured": doubly charged up,
and ready to ingest hyper-coffee
in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic
of ingesting amphetamines
                               (pervitin) -
night-raids... the londoonoirnischt
blitz, sloth krieg...
ya ya yawn...
                urgh... burp...
and always... those poncy -
english, gay, aristocratic men...
and their... psychotropic women...
so what's the difference between
a common thief...
   and a spectacle magician?
one "owns" cctv footage,
the other owns a stage...
   yet both share a: quicksilver
take on, what cannot be
interpreted in either handwriting
or stenography...
  hmm...
              can't be sure whether
both could be considered legal.

only one word prompted me: szło,  i.e. as it went...
urgh... phobias for slavs.... she was drininking tango...
(strachy na lachy, piła tango; czarna bandera! i or spanish y,
janosik! hula huj! niby, oby, nie prawda).
ugh, i sat there, on the throne, with my **** eager,
i felt sick more about a ******* relationship than the actual
taboo infested act... family via ****, what a dross!
back to level 1 of art, heterosexual, and onan,
                it was alway going to be
akin to history, and the caurosel... bilinigual "dyslexia" -
carousel... kabbalah in the moment, loss
of fixation on the tetragrammaton...
and i woke up today, fiddling with my hands
like a blind buddha...
that handsignal he is understood to "wave"
about in statue form, how the ring finger
bends and touches the thumb's nail...
and that's to represent a family,
index woman, middle man, pinky a child...
and why we use acronym base
for putting on a ring onto the ring finger,
touching the tip of thumb,
meaning Caesar said: all good...
outside the coliseum...
so that's what blind buddha said...
and like i already said,
in the future philosophers were sellers
of dictionaries, and lawyers were
sellers of thesarus rex...
you mention the dinosaurs,
and i'm supposed to say: you're the lucky un.
i drank in order to remember
that i must forget...
but still my previous life was flashing
before my eyes...
like i was about to engage in
re-imitating it... a *******'s load of hope
groping the eyes of those who,
stranded in the desert, suggested an oasis...
as the title suggest: always about
cliche, about a faux pas... and yes:
an opera...
  i want to be the linguistic orginating in
chemistry, seems i am,
how the english tongue took to
late christainity, the un-orthodox mention
of st. thomas' gospel unearthed from
an egyptian desert... 30 miles south of Cairo...
or so so...
            i might like to read an existential
novel of the children bound to feminism
and i.v.f., and how horrid it was to live
with your parents, and economy,
   and how the shame came,
in pakistani format...
                 just thinking...
my **** said much more 30 minutes prior,
but the i.v.f. narrative and how our nature
was dislodged by our power to overcome
our foundations, and still people died
in earthquakes and tsunamis...
                 but indeed, szło:
how it went...
                and thus my reason to give it ***...
like learning french, masculine and feminine forms,
of the said word,
  szła = she went; szedł = he was dasein / walked,
ergo revision szła = he was dasein...
   and that's the reason i didn't really
love my russian girlfriend, she said
polish was primarily defined by
   ш ш ш, i said huш, she said: шut up!
   the last love and the only and the end, of a concept
and matrimony to fiction.
let's deal with realities... play marbles,
talk about gambling and gamble...
**** it all away... flip coins and
do whatever is necessary, having found love
is rare more than a peacock feather for a quill,
and let's just, grow up.
every, single, time, that jewish ghetto freak
of a god comes up, an all encompassing word,
that can encompass mere noun, from mere sound,
from mere onomatopoeia, into a verb,
   a lament configuration that just encrusts itself
into the concept of a noumenon...
past terms, present terms, future terms...
and sexuality...
  szła шedł szło...
     three sexes, one, the last, neutral...
               and when psychology comes along to play
the game of anthropology you'll say
what i said... she dasein, he dasein,
   it, the world, happened...
                             and that's a thank you
to a philosopher of lore (20th century) for being
able to complicate my life, and
   celebrate the ghetto god of Jews...
  nah, they can keep the crucifix and their
Judas reward like altars...
  all that gold needs the stink of prayer
and sycophancy... like they do in Russia:
priest stands before the altar, reads an orthodox
verse, his back against the people kneeling
behind him, as the depiction of Judas
in the scenario of the last supper...
and you can't even sit and listen to the choir
doing a rendition of Bach... some church
attendant tells you to not sit...
and appreciate the choir...
"modern" Russia for you...
   what's with this cult of modernity?
we are living in times where modernity is cult,
it's nothing but cult, or the limit...
modernity is a cult of journalists...
they're almost anti-darwinist in their expression...
poetry, poetry has to, attack journalism...
i see no other way to go about it...
   marriage... hmmph! шło, how it went...
well... it went like this:
siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak...
chłop powiedział.... i to było tak:
   an idiot mongolian played the imaginary
harmonica doing motorboat with
his lips and moving his index finger
up and down against the "slur" of excess phlegm...
(a woman was sowing poppies,
she didn't know how,
a man said: like this... and both became
Glaswegian ****** junkies to "feel" good)...
   i broke up with that russian hyenna
just before she embarked into m.d.m.a.,
yes, i'm a happily alcoholic concept of
sanity, for what sanity's worth looking
at other people claim their rites of passage
beyond religion, beyond anything,
as said: only choice, and subsequent regrets
and joviality: if prominent on the faces
of some you encounter in the fudge of
modern grey matter / area.
i can only say that this current transgender
movement is almost as prominent as
what's inherent in the english language,
how words like table, chair...
pineapple, do not have gender in the language
per se, there's no masculine or feminine
conceptualisation of simple things,
someone who's french might say
a chair has male qualities,
   and a table has feminine qualities...
it's subtle... refined to a very slight
           chance of spotting a variation of spelling...
e.g. шło (how it went), and the two variations,
one for man (шedł), and one for woman (шła)...
evidently the anglophone language has too
much money, and even more spare time,
to actually un-poeticize the nag hammadi library...
i mean, everyone is killing poetry,
but this sort of ****** is beyond any worth...
the genesis of this story begins with
psychiatry and the 1960s, primarily a Scot,
a Glaswegian, r. d. laing, coming straight out
of c. g. jung.... freud is for rich people and
the only oedipus: Wilhelm II of german...
it must be a luxury, it can't be anything but,
it must be a luxury to have dreams
and to also have an interpretation of them,
right? they call them the snowflakes generation...
i just call them freud-tards with their toothpicks
for trees forests of "depth".
looking at the way jesus is depicted, with a
void black halo around him:
i'm suspecting we wasn't a big dreamer,
to lift the veil: an imitation of Joseph,
seven lean years, seven bountiful...
   and how so few of us actually have a rich
dream life... we don't, not everyone is invited
to lead such a double life...
  some do, and they have recurrent dreams,
well, one dream over and over and... what a boring life.
i dream sometimes, but it looks like scrambled eggs,
too many: dreams within dreams...
   then again, if i followed the diagnostics of
w. burroughs, i'd probably feel embodied in dreams
if i shot up ******... or smoked it...
  but i prefer a rested body anyway.
so yeah, a bit quasi-etymological,
those "idiosyncratic" but rather specific words:
шło... id.... that it went / how it went...
  and so it went...
english doesn't have a *** in language,
   nothing to decipher whether a man or woman uses
it, unless you congest it with
   excess pronoun shrapnel...
          excess pronoun and conjunction shrapnel...
the only thing that resembles saxon in post-Hastings
french viking invasion are the way chemical
nouns reflect what a german makes of
antidote to claustrophobia:
                  habbeschneizergoo, or thereabouts.
let's just say: language as theory.
   this is mine... what do you have?
ah... right... a concrete heart, an empirical heart...
does that allow counter defining an origin
not related to the big bang, but a meow or a woof
of knuckling a tree... i.e. extracting sounds
and later appropriating the invocation of sound
to later state pointless mantra, and otherwise
read more, see less?
   if we're talking sounds, or the big bang
is my idea of the φoνoς, look... the ancients
beginning with Heraclitus had logos...
or word, until that concept became ghetto...
now we have so much music, and that one
defining "sound"... i say φoνoς, to counter
the science of the bang... and yeah, it's apparently "big"...
just learn a science to a degree level,
and then relax unlearning it writing philosophy...
you just might spontaneously write poetry,
     and gave a libido of a Solomon, but no harem;
gents! handshakes! handshakes!

I read once that when we meet our soul mate we feel calm.
At peace, at home.
And I think that makes sense, I have always been an empty road, a drifting sea.
And to find land, that would be my sou mate.

VII - The Event. (23rd June 2011).

It started off normal,
wispy clouds
on an unexceptional morning,
that’s what it looked like,

but no, was not a normal day.
Calm, unruffled, no fear in my head.
The exam started, albeit a little later than planned,
it went OK I thought, but the rain, the rain,

nearly messed it up for us.
But it stopped - an omen perhaps?
P was there
and into the unfamiliar we went.

Can’t thank him enough
for his help that Thursday afternoon.
He bought something to eat first,
this is what, not long after twelve.

Later, two bouquets, as I said, red and pink.
Delicate petals wrapped up in my hands.
Sat in this small park area, oh man,
people are going to see this, I was adamant.

My watch kept smirking
each time I glanced at my wrist.
When we got back
K and M

almost found out,
however fast thinking
saw the package stashed
behind a tree.

J was upset,
it’d be me later I guessed,
we spoke fleetingly
before the earwax bus arrived.

You were on it,
thank heavens for that.
I jumped high like a kid
who’d scoffed too many Skittles.

Pretty of course.
Part of me knew I wouldn’t see
anything so striking again
for a long time after.

Brown cake, brown tea,
brown hair,
I look at the pictures
every now and then,

I looked an idiot
in my cobalt cardigan.
Then as expected,
you ruined it.

VIII - The Non-Fiction. (22nd/23rd June 2011).

The boy and the girl are in love.
Urgh, *****.
The girl has to leave for the big city.
Not good.
She departs and the boy is distraught.
Oh dear.
He meets up with a friend.
OK then.
They choose to go and see her.
Excellent news.
They get to where she is.
How exciting.
The three have fun that evening.
Quite nice.
The boy whispers in the girl’s ear.
Say what?
The story ends unfinished.
**** it.

IX - The Event (Part 2). (23rd June 2012).

Why’d you have to get a lift?
Why’d you have to change it?
At the end of the class,
I fetched them

and you hugged me.
Didn’t want to I bet.
Everybody saw,
H, C, L and J (all three),

you with roses and part four
of the story.
Then gone.
Everybody gone.

On my way home
I saw S on his bike.
Said well done.
Thanks, but the icy actuality was there.

You were gone.
You haven’t come back.

I wish that one day I will

write words

that would pierce hearts

and seem as if

they were woven with magic

touch lives

and come alive

I wish inspiration

would come as easily

as a bee is drawn to honey

I wish

urgh

asdfghjkl

I (hate) poetry.

Its raining here and I couldn't help but think about you, even though I know you hate the rain.
I always laughed at that, at how different we both were, at how much you used to hate the things I loved.

I hadn't thought about you at all this week. but as I heard the spatter of raindrops against my window and your voice,unbidden,rang through my mind like a bell chime. again and again, saying “urgh, i hate the rain.”

Isn't it weird? When that one thing you hate the most becomes that one thing to remind someone of you. I find it infinitely sad and infinitely funny at the same time. It makes me both; happy and sad. Making me want to laugh and cry at the same time,because that’s what you did to me. You made me lose my balance.

I used to think that, I could keep my sentiments restrained; You showed me that nobody could control their emotions. You showed me that opposites go really good together. You showed me an "us".  You showed me the kind of love that could either raise the world to its full glory or burn it down to ashes.

You showed me that there was a war inside each of us and that we had to fight it. You trained me, taught me how to fight the raging battle between the two sides of my own soul.

And then the war came and I was smack in the middle of it, where you taught me to be. And I was on the battle ground, wounded, bleeding -- dying, loosing. And I looked back at you for help. I looked back. And never found you there. You were never there.

urgh
i'm so stressed

my pile of work used to be so small
just a few things
but it grew
and grew
and grew
it may fall on me

when I thought it wouldn't get bigger,
it did
it's still growing
it will never end

its been two weeks
I haven't made a dent
my pile of work will never end

urgh
unrequited love

Hello? ... Hello? ... Oh!
It works! It works!
AHH, MY PLAN!
It FINALLY works!

Hello there, reader!
Its nice to meet you!
Finally, my bridge works.
Hi! My name is Blue.

Me and my friends-
Oops.. My friends and I,
Will tell you GREAT stories
And they'll blow your MIND!

Yellow's ones are the best,
Moral and heart.
Black's ones are scary,
Any day, I'll take a pass.

In fact, Black is logical.
Terrifyingly precise.
And Red ... Urgh, Red,
We don't fit, Red and I.

Okay, so anyway,
My stories are nice?
Let's say they're creative,
Adventurous, in my eyes.

So now that I'm done,
This is my good bye.
I hope to meet you
In another special time.

Ok, let me get this straight..
actually no.
I don't want it straight..
straight never went .. straight
to what it's supposed to lead to

Let me get this curved?
maybe that would help
then again..
curved is straight with a dent
what if I have multiple
d             n                        s
    e                           t

Then let me get this dented?
ups and downs?
urgh... de ja vu...

Let me get this...
now..
that's more like it ...

5h30: First Alarm. Snooze. Urgh.                 Bed.

7h00: Awake. Running late.                          Hustle.

7h40:
Traffic selfie. To long distance friends.       Smile.

8h05:
Work. Cheeky wink from work wife.        "You look great"

12h00: Lunch. Rooftop Carpark                   The View.

17h30: Late afternoon coffee. Gym.             Motivated.

19h30: Home. Dinner.                                    Stuffed.

22h00: Bed.        Find something to be         Grateful             for.

"Hello? Yes? Are you-"
Hang up
What?
Hang up!
No!
Shut up,
Sit down,
Don't talk.
Uhh...

"Never mind,
Sorry to bother,
I'll just,
Leave..."
What the hell,
Anxiety?!

Just looking out,
For what might happen,
If you stumble or stutter,
What would they think? Imagine!

But if you do this,
Every time I talk,
I won't have anyone,
To help me out!

"Hey, we're having a party,
Wanna come over and have fun?"
"That would be great- "
NO!
WAIT!
"But... Err, I have some work,
That needs to be done"

Again, really?
Now what may the problem be?
It's just, so many people!
So much danger!
Urgh, I hate you Anxiety.

undeniably, the relations between men & women have
hit rock bottom:
bottom to the rock, rock at the bottom:
perhaps with want of a heart...
undeniably, the relations between men & women
have... slouched... hit the snooze briefing...

sample:

thank god for that... easy to spot Saturn with your head shoved up your own ***? never mind... but great: you do you... moralistic busy-body... ha... minding my language... why bother using websites where freedom of expression is paramount, where there's no prerequisites of watching words? you must be fooling yourself, fraulein zensieren; i doubt that you'll find peace.

freed from responsibilities,
freed from: being freed...
freed from looking for something:
freed from looking for nothing,
one shot, two shots: three...

**** me... let's go to the brothel...
or listen to dreaming...
from the coraline soundtrack...
something to escape this itch of a...
ahem... "gripping" narrative...
as about gripping as a bloodthirsty lice...
for ****'s sake...
to the brothel with you!
idiot!

or at least pretend to be caught up
talking with your shadow,
or jesting at: igloo! igloo!
shaking the paw of your cat in
the zenith of his, ahem:
"personal concerns" for cleanliness...

Darwinism & all manner of anti-subjectivity...
cat ladies... ****'s sake...
cat ladies?!
i love cats... bonsai tigers...
i love petting cats, esp. maine *****...
you can just ignore them...
i like petting cats by ignoring them...
you go: do your thing... "thing"...
*******!
and they do...

ugh... men & this romance concerning dogs...
i watched closely...
i read enough William Burroughs to also know:
there is never a wasted moment when petting
cats... self-absorbed "ballerinas of solipsism"...
a dog implies... ****...
a leash... a german shepherd... a muzzle...
specified hours for doing the rounds...

mina jak kot srajacy na pustyni...
a grimace of a cat taking a **** in the desert...
i can just ignore the little ******...
ha ha... "little"...
coming close to 9kg... "little"...
plus... cats are less perverted than dogs..
from what i've noticed...
dogs are more prone to orientate their self-hygiene tongues
around the genital regions...
cats? less likely...

cats are les likely to lick their *****:
& no *****... lick of the paw... paw rubbed against
the head:
never a wasted moment... bonsai tigers...
sure... i'm a cat man...
i've hear rumours that
cauliflowers used to be purple...
**** me... i heard a story that carrots used
to be purple...

dogs & *******... leaches & muzzles...
as much as i love dogs...
sure... i have a dog...
i have my shadow.... that's dog enough...
melancholy & cats & the drive of curiosity...

to the brothel with you!
take Milton with you... for ****'s sake..
bonsai tiger!
bonsai tigers!
urgh... of course i'll be huffing & puffing
with corrections!
for your own good!
but only years later... will you... finally...
succumb to the argument...
wait... i said a decade... wait...

men & their ******* dogs...
******* hey presto ******* licking fwends...
*******...
BONSAI TIGERS...
what could possibly be wrong with you...
it's great to simply ignore...
i eat... they eat...
what's the ******* rattle of argument?
who owns who?
bodzio bodzio... headbutt & acknowledgment...
i'm here... he's also here... "he"....

leash? muzzle? do i look like a man
desperately seeking companionship?
yeah... where's that leash... where's that dog?
seriously.... ******* with that dribble yet to
imitate doing a nutmeg...

for those yet to die: & for those to die...
here, now...
no good Samaritan...
hello, goodbye...
                    i just envision one proverb...
mind, the, *******, traffic;
seriously... mind the traffic;
that's coming from a cyclist...
mind the ******* traffic.

“Butterfly skin” they said.
2 words that shook me and tipped me into a dark depression.
My Margot, my special.. special.. don’t like that word.
All I know is that my life would never be the same again.
Parenthood, the hardest job in the world just tripled in weight.
Urgh, how selfish.

I couldn’t pull myself out of it.
I started a list, all the things she wouldn’t be able to do or would need support with...

Applying make up
Shaving her legs
Carrying heavy shopping bags
Running in the rain. Running in general
Ballet lessons
Tattoos and piercings
Skipping a bath for a couple of nights
Camping
Athletics
Wearing high heels
Intimacy, would she be able to... start a family?

And then I thought of all the...

Confused looks
Judgements from outsiders
Abuse?
Having to explain myself
Not going out or taking her out
Not being a good Mum
The teasing, bullying, the blame.

I’m comforted by these 4 walls. Our routine.

I run her an antiseptic bath, wash her, dry her and pat her down gently, apply her steroid cream, moisturise her, apply barrier cream, wrap her in her zinc dressings, cut her clinifast dressings to size and put them on her and then dress her in her suits. Where’s the time for adventure?
No, maintaining her skin and her health is the priority.

Just about getting by and the confidence to get her out and then the one time you venture out, “What’s that on her face? Do you know what works wonders? Coconut butter. My work mate’s Auntie’s daughter’s friend used it and it disappeared, no joke” and all I can think about through my assassin’s smile is carving off this nitwit’s skin and lobbing a jar of coconut butter at her ignorant face.

No you don’t ******* get it, it’s not eczema and yes she could have had it worse but can I just wallow in my own selfish bubble for a minute?

Should I just remove myself from her life so someone stronger can step in, man up and deal with this? Stop being stupid!

The “safe” bubble deforms, another gift from the mutation she inherited from me. It no longer has sides to **** and push, just a swamp of black.

Then one dark period, it came to me.

How about I change my list and write down everything she can do easily without me?

She makes me smile on cue
She never lets her condition get to her
She is as bright as a button and educates me daily
She is bossy beyond belief, if I ever get sidetracked with me drowning in my narcissism, she reminds me what to do and when to do it
She is beautiful and I mean breathtakingly beautiful
Her laugh, the kind of laugh where you know she’s been around many more years then the mere 4 she’s graced us with
She has the confidence to strike up a conversation with just about anybody
She slips and falls but after the initial trauma, she gets up and keeps going
She senses my neuroses and makes me laugh by pulling funny faces

It’s through thinking of these things that I realise that if anything or anyone tries to take any of these most natural things away from her, I will be here. I have to be here. And all of this extra time I have to spend looking after her is a blessing. I don’t have to spend extra time with her, I get to spend this time with her.

She’s... we’re going to be ok.


Emma Stewart

the **** do i hear?
either
mike flowler's
for the love of a princess
or
  vaughan williams's
fantasia on a theme
by thomas tallis...
yes... because i am also
too aware of being
aware of, my ******* cat,
smirking at me,
lullabied by this piece...
and yes...
anger.. urgh...
         England
did not provide us with
an original pianist...
troll: even i wouldn't be
proud of Elgar...
keep pushing the ******,
keep pushin',
****! where did the G go?!
i cried listening
to vaughan williams...
but listening to classic.fm,
i hear...
i wrote a poem
that became as famous
as the table-ware's worth of,
a, work:
   or a michael portillo
smirk... god! that man attires
himself well
in what, constitutes
a bright neon take on color
in the creed of the tux...
lazily fetched....
why wasn't michael portillo
ever the british p.m.?
   i guess as much as:
which is why i attire
myself in the hierarchy
for the worth of attire
resembling either a genuis
or a ***...
                 my use of
the given tongue is the last
remnant of satus to
concern myself with...
but the pyramid is
all that will ever stand,
and all else that will
topple...
my my: the man dressed
well!
        see the crisp
canary yellow,
the fading cosmopolitan
pink itching
to figure out a salmon spank
of punk pink...
suit and sir...
but i remember burrowing
like an pauper in
the forest,
shoe not far from foot
muddied...
by a man riding a horse...
and...
god give me the courage
to have the same-sense-semblance
of the farce that has
become of this man's face!
leave me a death's ardent
patron to say:
and in that democratic
worth of the column
in a sight of:
the vote to veto ratio -
yet all must die...
i sometimes wonder...
such a well dressed man
as a michael portillo?
i shackles and tiresome tartan
scraps for a bending knee...
squek (s)quack: and no door
or a duck in sight!

   i'd still say:
the man retired from
politics, because he dressed
too well, refined, affirming...
   that:
            not many much
of muttering,
   to claim a rhetorical
spit, and chance...
and...
                   i want to
be reminded by the arithemtic
of the scan of the peopled
earth,
  and never be given
a chance inspection
of the hidden rubric of heir
and hierarchy;

            should i have
burdened myself in utilizing my voice
i should have found
myself in...
  no freedom to heave
with the burden of lodged limbs
before me!

whatever: "philosopher's stone"
of the crux of mammon
doesn't attach itself or touch
****...
   people like pearls
in purple satin of a bishop's cloak!

or at least...
a handshake with a shadow's worth
depart from the body
entrenched in
              the logistics of mind,
belonging to the man: not his scout.

i must be drunk...
watching a video disseminating
Latin text...
  i'm seeing Hebrew...
maybe i marginalized
my priorities...
               maybe i drunk
too much (that, that i pretty
much doubt)...
maybe i listened to too
much... *******(urgh!)
music akin to Metallica....
your guess is as good
as mine.

Ouch!
That really hurt
Never thought it would be quite so curt
Urgh!
A raw open wound
Remnant of a place that once bloomed
Tsst!
Sting of my pride
Healing that leaves it empty inside

Was the pain that bad?
Are you really mad?

Grr...
A twisting rage
Driving me towards my own cage
...rrr...
It's all your fault
For leaving me as cold as the city asphalt
...rrr
Im the one that broke
Blinding the light from which my heart spoke

Im sorry
For my words that led to Hari Kari

Sniff
Why did I do you wrong?
Voicing my thoughts loud as a gong
Sniff
Hate that cuts me
Was the only sight you were allowed to see
Sniff
Thank you, for the love you gave
For this fool, this ****, this degenerate knave

The worst part is the emptiness, not the pain. Because at least pain kept you in my heart. The silence just means you're gone.

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!

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