.and what if the referendum was secured, by the single vote, if it was predicated on: only and only if, there's a 60% consensus... the current debate is taken place, because the consensus is, extremely marginal... we're talking about fringe politics, outlier political opinions... the the remain vote is argued with the same verocity as the leave vote... for the benefit of outlier opinions... if only there was a predicate: it will be passed... as long as there's a 10% difference between the votes... 51.9% for leave to 48.1% for remain, of the country having voted... if only the whole point of voting, was akin to the "ancient" enforced tactic of drafting men to serve in the army... 67.7% voting areas voting to leave... 32.3% voting to remain... yeah... the "obscure" parts of england... with scotland, clearly being an anomaly with regards to "obscure" rural regions... should the argument come: concentration of power, in urban babylons.

someone should, really, really try to remaster
that vague piece of work

                       that pristine rhythm
    section: notably on the song bite now bite
from the album
          eat your heart out -
                              by... a belgian band:
of all bands... it had to be, belgian...
  ******* choccies (KLINIK) -
   oh look, an intra-racial slur...
                                                     chocolatiers...
because what would be fun:
  if language was plain, safe,
                                                      in vitro:
and not the islam to the individual -
   whenever: i, am to submit,
                     to the language of the other?
well obviously malice is reserved
for something else, but not for breathing,
thinking or feeling,
   or for that matter:
     the "problem" of idle hands...
itchy hands...
               i guess some of the throng,
of the volk: chatter chatter chatter...
    bite... chew... but then forget to
swallow... (sow s-, s-, swo-, swo-...
'the **** an A charge in, eh?
                                     i guess, that's how).

but no one
likes to see
narrow
verse
likening it
to the Milan
fashion
show
catwalk

                               and all those poems
that look like this:

|begins here


               (no
      move-
                                 -ment
                 in
               between)


|ends here:

|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|­zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|can anyone please tell me...
   why zee / zed:
              is a conotation
                        depicting the process of sleep?

and all this nonsense:
                   england is spelled with
a capital: who says it's anywhere but london?
E this, E that,
    E sat on a wall
       and...
                    didn't fall accidently...
i know a rat when i see one...
   Nigel, Nigel (see... capital N,
implies emphasis, like italics or a colon
does)
       Nigel... can you please bring back
your fwend, Dawid?
                     just a few questions...
2 and a half 'ears lay'ter...
   and... no end in sight...
to those loitering... shuffling their feet...
how many votes do you actually need...
when there was only one
                     for die volk
- and i have to admit...
       it was close...
                roughly                      51 to 49...
i know why they voted leave...
           because of the people who poured
in, most, probably momentarily
back in 2004...
                              the people who were
taught two, of 20th century's prime lessons,
by foreign entities...
               arbeit macht frei
               und?
                        communism.

         so no laid-back work ethic coming
with the windrush, was there?
                    conflict of interests...
**** it, if i were strapped to a caribbean
island, i'd have a laid back work ethic:
                             ka-reeb-ib-ean.

yet still this whole blah blah debate...
          like... let's forget the good friday
agreement...
   but finally...
            we can have the old terrorists back...
so...
            maybe the IRA will
                  out-compete the jihadis?
or at least scare them?
  or... dunno...
                                            ol' Jack...
ol' Jackie boy'o will: simply...        unravel?
am i rooting for it to happen?
no...
                            but it would suggest
that i'm rooting for being part of
                a historical event,
                            like the treaty of versailles...
or the weimar rep.,
                            and i was the voice
on the bottom,
               sifting through
                     eclectic ambitions to find:
culture that will never become
mainstream...
                                           almost
forever destined for the: archaic archive,
now forever the footstuff
                            of the gargantuan a.i.:
alternatively known as a.i.p.:
                   artificial intelligence purgatory.

- hey, i can't compete,
    i'm just a kid that forgot to bring
his crayons, and instead brought
   some matchsticks and toothpicks.

if only: 2 years prior to the referendum
they had a plan...
   but they thought they could do
a joker trick,
         so there you have it: agent of chaos...
agent of chaos says:
  people, 1 vote, politicians?
         an infinite number of votes by
the looks of it...
                  voting is not reserved
for the people, de facto,
                       given:
we now have a strange despot on our
hands... der volk...
                    what a strange monster...
was i leave or remain?
   neither, considering that i ended up
drinking to stay somewhat sane
for the past... oh... 10 years...
    on debit...
                well... why would i even
consider drinking into the excesses of
phantasmagoria              on credit?
that would be stupid, as stupid didn't.

in summary: to minor points...
    i can understand why people don't like
poetry...
                                                 porcelain...
or the fact that their everyday language
is already peppered with poetic techniques...
figuratively speaking...
                   akin to:
   where does the technique of poetry
end, and the comedy begin?
                     yeah, that: "not literally" part?

who would mind:
   it's not an elitist "thing" to like or dislike
a medium...
                 i like the "breathing" space in
the optics... of... the never to be seen
                              literary paragraph...
i like cascades...
                         paragraphs are sometimes
a strain on the eyes...
like watching really fast cars
zoom past you on a very small race-track...
**** just gets dizzy...

.......................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­.......... (click) etc.

hence?
           well on the up-side...
once you've read some magnum opus...
say... the cantos...
    for some strange reason...
you can sit back, listen to some choccie
music from the underground...
open the book...
   and just stare at the poetry...
    without having to reread anything...
a bit like...
                  a painting...

                                    sure as **** you
can't do that with a novel,
      with its rigid, cluster-**** of a descriptive
paragraph: she said, he said,
then another descriptive paragraph:
he said, she said...

               as much as i love novels...
  give me a poetics of a framework of freedom,
or a philosophical monologue
    by some helmut
    (german) - oh look...
     another intra-racial slur...
    helmuty: germans...
                  derived from?
              helmut kohl -
                    german chancellor 1982 - 1998;

ah... what an enriching experience.

He said:
“In the dark night of my soul
I stayed with my darkness.
When a pain struck voice
Came to me, I did not chase
My demons away.
Thinking of all, the suffering I’ve endured
I walked through the street of my past
Solemnly, soberly,
Witnessing all my experiences again.
Before me, light reflected on the pavement –
Iridescent fragments joined to form
Pictures below my feet.
Stories from my childhood played
Like a movie on the ground,
I’m the star of my own show,
I’m powering through each scene
With such verocity I leave nothing
But ruins in my wake.
I reach to pick up the fragments
Of the life of a girl unhinged -
To think my own mind had led me to this.
I wipe the tears from my eyes,
Then, I pass on.

In the dark night of my soul
I stay with my darkness,
For it has so much to teach me
And I learn, so little, if I flee.

© Sia Jane

you read a saturday article, you gain insight into the void,
and then you attempt a su doku...
i couldn't finish of no. 8902 (difficult)...
i attempted no. 8903 (fiendish)
and lost the plot at square-to-linear
interchange with the number 1...
        all the while not really concentrating
on the puzzle, or trying to master
the craft to a competitor's level
of expertease...
  it became a game of trying to find the origin...
summarised by the words: not here, not here,
                  but here.
the crux of no. 8903? only one 2 on the "palette".
        and two ones. i reached the point where
a square of the 9 and a linear completion didn't
correlate... exactly... a misplaced 1.
                   so then i conceptualised:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
                             1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 2, 3, 4, (3?) 5....
         iocus numero similis prior cataracta;
a case of parity...
               coordination e.g. (9, 9)            (9)
elsewhere...
                                the dynamic soon
shifted into
              (1, 2, 1) through to (2, 1, 2), then into
(1, 2, 1, 2)... (2, 3, 2, 3), (3, 4, 3, 4), (4, 5, 4, 5),
         (5, 6, 5, 6), (6, 7, 6, 7), (7, 8, 7, 8),
                        (8, 9, 8, 9); and that equals?
the encompassing void of 0.
                  ',  ,'           (or the collpasing effect) /
implosion.
           just as much to distract me as an article
about mayte garcia / the first wife of prince...
    *****, ms. pepsi and the windowsill and the night...
yesterday's antics: a decapitated daffodil
a fiołek (violet) head... pinched rosemary and pinched mint...
     laid down on a kitchen counter...
            a cat... and "someone" talking about
scents...
                       3 sharpened kitchen knives in the garden,
on a stone that oozed off dust (as the knives were
sharpened with such verocity)...
    and now today... more ms. pepsi with vladimir vod
           of the excess of thus stated opinion: ruling,
unchallenged; because who the **** would
take sober opinions, seriously?

I tried to work a nine to five
But it felt like I was living a lie
My soul craved more
I couldn't ignore
It was pounding
At my door
With viciousness
And verocity
I was vindicated
And set free
When I followed my heart
And made the first steps
Toward a new start
I was scared and confused
I had little direction but I knew
What I had to do
I dove into the dark depths
And splattered the pages
With pieces of me
I hadn't been able to see
That I kept in disguise
Because society told me to
What a pack of lies
I've always been a writer
I just hadn't found my voice
But when you're destined to write
You really don't have a choice
Cause the world only makes sense to me
When it's written in verse and poetry
I can no longer pretend I don't see
What is clearly my destiny

A shadow of a man...an ounce of doubt leaves him dripping in red

Paint the picture than start again

**** times three, my anger hatred and verocity, pull me back than count to three...
Please just say you won't leave

A mad mans tale that's what he said, a ******* marry go round that leaves him dripping red

hmm...
    people read you
in the same way as you appear
to them...
i was wished a good weekend,
like:
   i walked into his parlour
for a haircut and beard-trim
as if i was about to head
into London for a one-night-stand...
o.k. edward scissor hands...
i just wanted to walk
into a supermarket
to freak out the female cashiers...
and buy a bottle of whiskey
and some pepsi,
and be served by a male
cashier...
   and not have to say:
goodnight first,
but be wished goodnight,
with a sir, attached...
  writing a novel...
is something akin to a life,
in the modern sense
of the biography of Bukowski,
i will never, ever
want to live out,
for a necessity to keep up
with pandering others...
who would not quicken
a diet using a corset:
did i make it to a nightclub,
"feeling special",
finding myself among
the beautiful people
at some dead end nocturnal
London groupie event
of Bloc Party making
an appearance?
  forgot to sniff coke,
snogged a Finnish girl...
   once upon a time
a distant past and a space
that occupies my mind:
    she started snogging me
even though she made it
a curiosity while i wore
      an EisenKreuz t-shirt
with the motto...
  and i said: to her argument:
it's just fashion...
'ere goes the play
on the collateral...
  and loaning collateral status
to jews...
      what ever, war,
was, ever, a war,
   from the genesis of
world war two?
     for me?
   the h'american war in
vietnam is a proxy war...
and, if there any "collateral":
i have the hebrew collateral...
which explains why the state
of israel could stage so many
proxy wars, which became
a patent project...
in the latest project?
the war in iraq...
   i know what the feral me looks
like, with an unpekpt beard,
and a hair-cut-overgrown
with only the worth
of hiding under a hood...
avoiding people by daylight,
scuttling like a rat into
the night for the ms. amber perfume...
at 50cl of whiskey:
i guess i'll sleep o.k.,
but we have our ultimate
collateral... the jews even
have a name for collateral...
the holocaust...
all the russians that died:
m'eh... some number...
hence?
  subsequent wars working
from the base collateral:
have no collateral...
ergo?
          subsequent wars
are proxy...
****... i started to call them
wars: in the dimension
of the oxymoron...
  
    when whatever war
is now proxy, by "definition"...
can only morph
into a:
      bellum pre praxis
   (war by practice -
well... let's just pray
to god the non-existing
almighty that terrorism
doesn't become a habitual
effort akin
   to home-making
            and baking cookies!)

different ******* ball-game...
or, baldie's game...
or whatever you want
to call:
   where the ****** with
the afro?

50cl of whiskey:
enough to write:
and hope for a k.o.
in the "drinking game"
of trying to fall asleep,
to fit in 6 hours
in a game of being
able to stay awake for
     60 hours...
with 2 hour interludes in
the circa 48 hour period...
  
for the exclusive right
of the collateral status,
holocaust,
   the rest are:
    tombstone and never
to scoop a single epitaph
of 1 per 10,000
or more...
      but that's
also an anaesthetic...
given that,
all wars...
working from the collateral
plateau...
of the collateral
affected...
   all subsequent wars
are proxy...
the last war
  of a people against
a people against
anything against
the moon-landing
congregation of
the new church
of the new priests...

         and of those:
with very, or little,
poetic extension beyond
mere nuance,
namely...
        the thesaurus...
the new bible
of the practice of applying
jurispridence...
just juggle
   a thesaurus access...
like: words were apples...
and apples...
   were not...
                pears...
congregation:
fruits that arrive
in autumn on the branch.

   - and now, by the only
dictum of law:
pontius pilate,
   only by the law
and the washed hands...
by now...
it takes more than just
washing the hands,
it implies washing the tongue
by having someone
to talk for you...

of the minority audacity in England,
of whom i am also,
part of...
        i guess:
i can only regurgitate
the English tongue back
to the natives, and write:
what they want to hear,
but, rarely allow themselves
to implement...
with the lost verocity
              of implementation...

point being:
would i trust a ****** english
hairdresser with my hair?
perhaps...
but with my beard?
not a chance in hell...
         slur...
god...
like i already said:
i already felt more free being
hand-cuffed
in an alley,
being screamed at by a police-officer
for ******* in an alleyway
on Romford's Friday night...
i felt more free...
being hand-cuffed...
and then, when being
asked
to get up from my knees...
in a pseudo-turkish-akimbo
saying: NO...
  than attempting this
"should-i-care"
mental gymnastics of
the sensitivity of people...
who never punched themselves
in the face,
or stubbed-out
cigarettes on their clenched
hands on the tips of their knuckles.

coming from a person
who laughs while punching himself
in the face to the point
of giving himself a black eye,
with no gloves,
with no boxing ring,
with no eager audience...
who puts out cigarettes
on the end-tips of
a fist of his knuckles
enjoying the ingestion
of a rarity of pain...
   a comment...
              on something akin to this...
sometimes the only emotions
are the cheap ones...
the most insect-esque...
  which relieves me from
writing grand
               Tolstoy literature.