I'll be here for infinity x infinity
A penchant for curves like cursives
I say it in my verses
Vocab too wide for curses
Don't like likes
Fingers to whoever dislike
Like a vlogger: share, comment, and like
Oh yeah, subscribe
Fun, I prescribe
Right on time
Better late than never
Man of the hour
Original with the flavour
Chocolate and Vanilla
Black and grey
If you're too slow to comprehend
No résumé
No references
DIY my title says
Fickle fools play 'Simon Says'
Press remotes don't change but
Batteries can be replaced all the same
God - like
Holier - than - thou; Pope's attitude, beg for mercy
Self - driven, self - motivated
Ministering like Osteen
Light and dark
Yin & Yang
Angel or demon I can be
High off life
Limitless, no pills
I'm probably ill
Well it's my will
To count millions in $100 bills
Like ice, I chill
That's me, trill
And that's that
Suh bill

LanceSkiies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.remember this youtube channel: harakiri diat...

i think this genre of music has a name: brutalism...
last night i watched 50 book recommendations
by the cosmicsceptic...
beside his oxford specific titles relating
to his philosophy and theology degree...
came the fictional books...
i presumed that i didn't read anything going
into this video...

i can be forgiven for not reading a christopher
hitchens when i've read some knausgård...
perhaps i presume to have not read anything...
because... i do quiet enjoy the act of reading...
so much so that... only scraps remain for me that
are: useful...

i can't imagine finding any use from a book
if it's not already in it...
apparently i'm not so under-read as i led myself
to believe...
but this is not about literature...
i was looking for a genre to encompass...
say... vomito *****...
the klinik...
the soft moon...
but i couldn't come to anything of worth...
not until i foraged for the more obscure...
the raw pulp...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
again... the channel harakiri diat
has the music covered...
zeit und geist... i am the fire...
let's keep it clean...
i would go as far as to include
bohren & der club of gore: midnight radio
into this whole mix...

as much as i'd love to push for die krupps...
no can do... their stuff is polished goods...
vomito ***** is polished goods...
but there's still something raw about them...
once upon a time there was this "thing"
about doom metal... electric wizard... etc.,
but i can say... this new brutalism is...
by far... better than a gavin mcinnes diet
of punk... i never liked punk...
i never liked punk as i never liked rap...
hip hop yes and all that jazzmatazz fussion...
some solid grit...

after all... Romford, Essex...
probably the last bastion of the music shop...
a his-master's-voice with a vinyl section...
my idea of a tennis-court,
a cafe, a swimming-pool, a park,
a church even... because you can never really
own too many records...

and between me and you:
what's the difference between me and my neighbor?
he plays his music, mostly rap...
on the speakers... and sings along to the songs...
he finishes the day with some r'n'b and stops
singing... i take over...

headphones in, 6ft2 posture hunched in a chair
scribbling with chicken-pecking precision
some long lost "hierogylphic"...
and of course: in between some, literature...
but it was only about the music...
youtubers ruined youtube as much as
the "legacy media"... or the next will smith...
"vlogger"...

once upon a time youtube was a haven for people
like me: who only used it to find new music...
somehow the glitches started and the music video
recommendations died: youtube thesaurus algorithm
became corrupt or something...

would i ever sing-along to a song?
not if it's as raw as a stake-tartar and the dish
needs to be served with merely thinking to compliment it...
i'll repeat what i've already said:
gentlemen! the jukebox is ******!
- and i was the type to listen and then buy
a physical copy... even though i didn't have to...
i could go back and listen to the same stuff again...
out of principle...

no car = no car insurance no road tax...
no mobile phone = no... bill...
in terms of primitive knot, though?
would you rather go blind or deaf?
that's a tough one...

listening to primitive knot or watching
a latex lucy b.d.s.m. short *****-flick...
i know: it's the obvious synonym overlap...
but at the same time it isn't...
gimp suits or all those other unicorns of the bedroom...
but no... the most forbidden act i ever managed
to fathom in a brothel was a kiss...
one time i pulled out a ***** from a drawer
when she went with the money to the madame
of the parlour and coming back asked me:

do you want to use it?
*** to me is like rye bread...
it's not a ******* croissant...
toasting alone will do the trick...
language is already complicated by necessity...
of crosswords and the boredom
that most mono-lingual people feed not having
learned a crossword of bilingualism...
why would i inhibit this fact of voyeurism?
apparently there's something immoral watching
someone get pleasured...
perhaps i should find some rare footage of
a peter anthony allen hanging...
or Leroy Hall, Jr. at the Riverbend (Nashville, Tennessee)?
perhaps i should start jerking off on
a whim, from time to time...
over execution footage?

perhaps it's that sort of conundrum...
you see someone eating ice-cream and enjoying it...
you therefore? buy yourself a cone?
god almighty... but the added responsibility
of also owning the fridge and freezer
when that spontaneous whim passes...
after all... there's always that diet of...
the girls jerking off into the camera...
which is probably the least guilt-riddled form
of ******* on the planet...

hey! if she's doing it... and you sat down
on the throne of thrones to do the no. 1 and the no. 2...
let's call it no. 3 and taking a baptism later (no. 4)...
esp. if you haven't been circumcised...
at this point: i feel sorry for the circumcised men...
that do not live within the rigours of a hasidic orthodoxy:
the circumcised man: the subservient woman...
the circumcised man: the woman in a niqab...
i guess that's how it works, no?
imagine the problems...
if the man were circumcised... but the woman...
was not supposed to pay any sort
of "penalty"...

then again: one would expect to find the best
***** under the crucifix...
stigmata pin-head and all those dittos...
and heads... but i am a connoisseur... 1970s...
1980s... but it must be Italian...
no... not German... and certainly not English...
chances are: yes, French... but more or less
Italian... and it's always on a whim...
connoisseur... well there are videos where
you can find a pregnant woman parading her bump...
and squeezing her *******...
and that's about it...

i want to imagine what those 9 months
of pregnancy must feel like...
for better or for worse... the oral demands...
perhaps i haven't written about this sort of stuff
for a long enough period...

now an interlude where i smoke a cigarette
is bound to be... exquisite...

it sure as hell is the safest way to arrive
at some sort of *** that's purely plesurable:
a gradation of *** without consequences...
but is this a celebration?
a woman ******* on camera with
her toys is a celebration...
me my ******* and the phantom hand...
there's no theatre in it...
the utility of taking a ****, taking a ****...
doing "it"... then having a shower...
and then "repressing" it...
not having "repressed" it to begin with...

i did a month once...
i came to the conclusion... that i'm more impulse
prone, i was planning my next brothel
visit... after a month i was still planning it...
then i relieved myself and...
would you believe it? the impetus dissolved!
i don't know what these right-wing
europa-identitarians are coming up with...
so much attention on:
i enjoy reading as much as i enjoy taking
a ****... notably the constipated kind
but esp. more of the diarrhoea nature...
hello mr. **** hello mrs. geiser!

perhaps that's why i wouldn't ever be a fan
of ******... i enjoy taking a **** too much...
or perhaps i'm just too old fashioned...
but this began as something orientating oneself
around a music genre...
how did it come down to pornogrpahy?

jean genet: the thief's journal...
i was really hoping for something marquis de sade
-esque... there was still too much:

solo girl does her bit...
so well in fact... that... buying a *** doll
must only remain a h'american thing...
*** is already shamed when marriage comes
along in anglo-saxon societies...
notably the inflateable sheep or doll
on those normie stag parties...
*** and children and the joke is:
you can only have good ***...
if you're ******* for procreative reasons...
bypassing the ****** for the sake
of the children...

otherwise... well no ******* doesn't help...
if... there's no wife in a niqab in public...
or some kosher wifey either...

i still have mine and i will keep that...
as... almost... a security policy...
a prenup...

pauk-mumije (1982 bosnian post punk)...
perhaps brutalism is just post-punk?

i remember it quiet clearly...
i still can't fall asleep without listening to music...
as i couldn't back then...

otchim - james dean...
the bass and no guitar riffs until the chorus
comes... and... ha ha... it's in fwench!
just like i could **** her without listening
to really... atmospheric music...
by 2007 standards that was equal to:
the dandy warhols...
but that was 2007...

these days... hardly candles and
black sun dreamer - post-traumatic stress disorder...
back then it was candles
and type o negative...
the candles and... catching a mouse...
no trap... a labyrinth of obstacles
and she sitting on the bed giggling while
i played being a maine ****...
and i did catch the mouse...
held it by the tail... let it lose on the stairwell...
and then watch its traumatised body try to
find a hole... scuttle and then fall...
to a depth of a greater serenity of
a... vermin's suicide: with no monkey sing-along
of... this mouse has done the cheese...

and it was sad when i was naive and
i accidently killed my hamster in a similar
fashion... but some ***** Abel...
but at least the mouse allowed me to
circumstance a Pontius Pilate relief...
and she asked me: what did you do with the mouse?

oh... it committed suicide.

chicago research compilation... tape CRO15...
perhaps listening to the cure
or depeche mode was once a "thing"...
no... burtalism is not post-punk...
pisse - kohlrubenwinter...
red zebra - i can't live in a livingroom...

my one personal joke...
in england i started calling the livingroom...
the civilroom...
pokój cywilny - if it must stress the St. Cyril...
so it must: комната гражданский..
brutalism is not post-punk...

stiff little fingers... are punk's creamy pie...
oto - bats...
bodychoke - cruelty
       "            - red dog
       "            - the red sea
legendary divorce - age with us...

somehow more of my ****** valnetine...
and less sonic youth...

i do remember pretending to date...
at high school...
the first question was always a nervous
build-up to the question:
'what music are you into?'

weird party - acne puncture...

well would you believe it...
some of us are still after something that
finds no sort of aleviation
in the alternative that's an aydin paladin
video...

POPEiUM - papacidal coronation...
Münn - II. in defeat...
a john peel: a no john peel...
the sort of piano that makes
a debussy or a satie blush...
AMORT - die hexes...

the current standard of... the stoogers...
or stooges... and... air no concern...
the limbo artifact of ***...
formerly known as the... limbo pickling...
of the undead...
and all those that come with an eczema and
the scabs of leprosy...
and vampires: those syphilitic zombies...

susumu yokota, and all those stupid,
solipsictically assured cats, grinning...
menace of the grin!
full cheese impromptu with a display
of teeth!
a night promenade into the forest
listening to: demdike stare's tryptych...

i haven't tried... but from 1pm through to 5pm...
i could phone classic.fm and ask
for... a song to be played in my name...
perhaps i'll phone in...
if i catch the right "once upon a time"...
and find it... as i found...
christopher young's: something to think
about...

**** and music... many interludes...
perhaps some little borat-britain references...
and then: none...
per 1K there's a cult...
per 10K there's a counter-culture...
come the 918 apostles... of jonestown...
there's no leftover for no...
alternative...

the restless mind starts its exercise
in petty squabbling....
why weren't i the respected,
vatican proof for a plumber!
why wasn't i to become,
the undertaker!

i too feel: the claustrophobia
of the ensue of the paragraph...
what is primitive knot contra U2...
mainstream? sod it: knot it a blood
and a sundail!
blood dries... the mercurial mythology
dries a solidity of
something becoming more an echo...
and less a sodden-print of the foot...
which the tide will,
nonetheless relate itself as...
worthy of being erased...

the violin concerto...
the piano nocturnes...
and the symphonies...
and the operas...
later the ballet...
beside... a chopin would write a nocturne...
a debussy would write one also...
but...
debussy writes a nocturne...
satie writes a nocture...
but a schumann?! a schubert?!
they write a concerto!
none of their work could have been written
in solide with a solipsistic monologue
escapade...

perhaps i can only appreciate chopin via
his nocturnes...
otherwise i am not convinced...
the greats wrote.... symphonies...
operas... never accompany pieces
to make their instrument an oak...
a tree... and not something resdual
to later make a mahoganny piano / table
of...

pianists! you only hear of their prowess!
Liszt! Chopin! Debussy! Satie...
exclaim as if to: suprise the "audience"
with either knowledge or...
adoration?
can a violinist make the same sort
of statements?
a pianist will play... with an accompaniment...
he will never become the maestro
predisposition
of the polyphony...

a chopin only heard the piano...
a debussy only heard a piano: solo...
a beethoven or a mozart...
what violin solo? what of a violin concerto?!
is that a trick question?
old father bach...
no instrument: well...
shubert loved allowing a piano ****
a bunch of harem violins in a harem crescendo
of a concerto...

but a nocturne? the polyphony of...
the "polyphony" of...
two pianos playing side-by-side...

- the joint"laura's"1967 kk proto prog freak phych -
no, that's not it...
- and no... it's not omega - gyöngyhajú lány...
- well **** on me...
locomotiv moscow is not a band...
but an f.c.... beg your pardon...

as i do hope that i am wrong about
a minor "technicality"...
somehow classical, essential...
and nothing worth or being able to: hum...
or sing-along-to...
always serious and finding outlets
of a necessity in being: thought of...
perhaps there's this grand:

technicality of not finding oneself sighing
or crying for that matter...
vaughan williams is more required...
for the expanse of a cowboy movie
horizon...
or that technical term...
the: deconstruction of the dutch angle
in the perspective shot...

but we don't talk about *** as much
as we don't engage in it...
and we certainly don't talk about music...
the absolute brutal needs to be found...
a butterfly a lotus a kiss in a brothel...
all else is... the slaughterhouse....

this has been a...
no Friday night in Soho can match-up...
i've spent better nights in
Amsterdam...
and no... the red light district was
never going to be a cannabis cafe for me...
or some Vermont-esque quest for a better
pint of ale...
*** was on sale...
there was not real point of making
any money from it in the medium of fiction...
it was always going to be
ugly, frictive... below par of expectation...
but it was always going to
be fathomable... fathomable in a sense
of it being respected...
as a hierarchical undermining...

oh what since was, truly was concrete...
but the verbiage came along
and fiddled with the fog and the end-result
deems itself abstract...
there's the concrete of drought...
and the abstract of locust.
there's the concrete of a mountain...
and the abstract of a pyramid;
there's the concrete of death...
and the abstract of a mosileum;
after all... a grave is a coping mechanism
of someone who...
never began the inquiry... of mortality...
joking as a child might...
pretending to handshake his own shadow.

as i have found the antithesis of narcissus...
the man who fell in love with his shadow.

.and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...

high-brow my ***...
         because iron maiden's phantom
of the opera... did... does... predate...
andrew webber's stab...
                 hard rock 'ammer...
       as in... a paul di'anno bitchboy
                 scant-gimpwhore fan... etc.
the castrato operatics... later...
n'ah...               but that's oh so much
an origins story...
                    and hardly the evolution...

- that the phantom of the opera stands on
a skeleton of three songs...
revised...                morphing...

perhaps not, not that they are songs...
i'd have to sharpen my scalpel for
attempting the smithy deeds on words...

a skeleton of three themes...
       thus noted:

               "angel of music"
            "phantom of the opera"
    and... last but not least:
                     "masquerade"...

what a day... or what wasn't expected...
no one ever told me that:
a musical per se... differs so much from
a musical: for the stage...

by musical...
                 i'd be shaking to conjure up...
the screen musicals of a west side story...
etc. -

            and one can easily so tire of
this trap...

  and what of the internal jokes?
jokes at the expense of the opera...
              - poor fool, he makes me laugh
       - hannibal...
quite the jokes...
   having to draw the blood from
the mundane talk elevated to an operatic
context of song...

that a musical is... somehow...
when opera can be reduced to talk...
and can be thus reduced to:
the joker in a hand of poker...
   a whimsical little card...

the 25th anniversery of the phantom
at the royal opera house...
one can somehow forgive the electronic
attaches of the overture...
whether the electric guitar of the drum
machine...

   like one can forgive:
                 nirvana's unplugged...
at the end though...
   even andrew webber looks perplexed /
nervous... how did we get away with this?
i don't know:
the only style of genre that...
actually requires a stage and props...
and ample volume of space!
a theatre: since otherwise...
opera: pure technique...
                and prop minimalism...

and...

because can a musical: not require a stage?
does it indeed feed too many images
that need to be attired with quacks...
with feathers... with leather boots and chandeliers?!

now i'll toast! i'll toast to a new reason
to go down the alleys of ah bit tipsy:
itsy bitsy sniffing a bottle neck...
bloated from a champagne cork pop!

truly... if only the stage...
   that allowance to perform a performance
a need to perfect: always never:
the editor in charge...
   all those out-takes left to what life is
left behind the curtain...

     the musical of the movies of h'america...
whatever they might be...
to name but a few would be best...
           and if i didn't first see the phatom
on a television screen...
but in its natural environment:
with the volume of required air...
     i wouldn't have been able to choke
my tears...

and i have seen the theatre
and i have seen the opera
and the ballet...
                            i sometimes...
"sometimes": wearisome...
try to forget the maggot pit of phelgm,
sweat and ***** of a rock concert...
        of all the mediums...
         this jumbled up swedish table platter...
what a cocktail of a rollercoaster!

i could forever take off my garments
of jealousy: of which there's that pitiable
affair of a beard-envy...
                well...
                           well well...

how pristine: they even had a music-box!
in that crude relief of finding
"revisions" and alt. interpretations
of... perhaps it's only a matter of
two themes and that overture?

             and if it's song and dance...
       it's not a candy-smiles and tap-dancing buffet...
it's opera and ballet...
because... it's opera:
                 ha! empty these cupboards!
no one needs to attend an opera
like a foreign language movie:
with subtitles running on a FTSE100
reel above the stage...

                      the musical: is the reinvention
of the opera... a musical is an opera...
with mild added animation of theatre...
and there's a pinch of ballet!

          this will most certainly not translate
into me liking cats... or les misérables...
       this will do...
                   sing-along / sing-through?
and everyone is, suddenly... equipped with
a deciphering ear to translate the over-infuated
vowels of an operatic breath?!

- and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...

- but if someone would tell you...
a musical... west side story? yes?
     i'm pretty sure it would be all about:
singin' in the rain... fair enough...
             but all for that popcorn entertainment...
and the tap-dancing...
and chewing-gum advert smiles...
and all that technicolour dabbling...
and all those heavily bothersome editing
processes... like... the plumbers
most associated with veins and arteries?
sorry: the romanians are picking the fruit
and veg for the next: x-factor star...
the next youtube vlogger breakthrough chart
topper...

blunt and ******* obvious...
      and how has english changed since Dickens?
i made a note of...
because i will not make notes
of what's already passed...
a direct etymological association with a loan,
word...
  not from dutch, german or french...

       SA-LU-BRI-OUS
            (healthy...)

                   PER-EM-PTO-RILY...
         (not being permitted a denial)

that 19th century victorian english that...
just had to loan words directly from
latin... this much of reading Dickens remains
in me... after having just experienced
a blitzkrieg of a musical: proper...

there are still the same old nooks 'n' crannies
for me to find shadows and moths
in...

    because: i am most certainly the one
about to cite: they took away my circuses!
and m'ah bread!
there's no football! well... no football?
goodness me! what are, what are...
the alternatives?!

         opera you can... disregard...
theatre if... movies are your...
ahem... sartre's curiosity with the keyhole...
voyeurism: to exist is to be seen...
but only through a keyhole...
                     which movies aren't, of course!
the editor comes in...
even in the golden age of cinema...
the panoramic view... resembled a stage...
and in the old movies you could
time... the editor taking charge...
and how long it would take for
the actors to forget their lines...

            not that that matters... given...
there's no stage... but the red carpet
of postures and toothpaste adverts...
and paparazzi *** epilepsy from the strobe
glitter ball of the leeches congregating!
not even vultures make such a spectacle!
i saw the same...
then the concrete was layered with enough
frost at night...
the crevices would become impregnated
with diamonds of ice...
every twist of the head would
agitate these sparkles toward imitation
of a flash!

there's a "musical": in the advent of the h'american
sense... and there's: a musical...

- and if you happen to hear a subtle joke
by evelyn waugh in the meantime:
at the better for you...
              what is an encyclopedic "ogling"
within the confines of scrutiny:
that man may forever be attired...
and the genitals just dangling like
champagne flutes without any,
any sort of, scrutiny of...
not having to play the Oedipus!

               here's a fork... here's a donkey...
here's a spoon... here's the Schleswig-Holstein
and its siege of Westerplatte!
here!
   the Schleswig-Holstein tenor of
                           the opera: Westerplatte...
oh joy: a "my" in a "history"...
and none of it an affair that might...
disturb the peaceful lives
of those lived: under the splendour
of a charles II and a handel firework's music
to have to somehow: "put out"!

clearly: i'll be dying from the ******
of all the collective forces of the universe
and gambling and... oopsies...
i am here... and it's not that sort of grey...
pistons assured!
- had i the face of beauty...
beside starring as a tadpole of potential...
a voice with a stage to make outlet with...

- what could ever become of this...
jigsaw puzzling overdue do...
                         the narrative in the classical sense:
hardly what, and what not:
this vector and the in-between
from some mythical (a) toward a journalism,
and weekend opinion pieces...
and all that insomnia riddled "journalism"
of the current year of crux denoted with
a (b)...

               all true: from darwin and the "big bang"...
and of course... time shrinking...
in between... beside carbon dating...
and let us not hear of things speak
for themselves: but ourselves!
untrue! hercules!
untrue! prometheus!
untrue untrue untrue!
but darwin and the ape: nod! gentlemen!
we have proof!
myth or no myth: but a journalistic integrity!
that's enough proof! for today and tomorrow!
and... what's not the fiction that's already
memory?

and what is... this imagination that's...
not a single street witnessed of Paris
in the circa of the year that was... 2004...
or 2006 or 2007...
                      
for the art... and this detail of science that
once upon a time shocked...
now... only comes... burdensome...
a ballet on ice... a shaking of hands with
a shadow... something beside this:
base revision of culture and civilization:
this bogus lopsided quest for:
re-inventing... nothing more... than a zoo!

so little must have happened in the case
of english history...
this hannibal and the mountains...
but what curtain: the great wall of china:
built among the mountains...
ingenious: doubling-up?
  xerxes whipping the waves of the aegean...
the great wall of *****-chewing-wall'ah...
i dare become the new albino...
i dare... and i the next japanese porcelain
frailty...
               many thanks: for the <caugh caugh>...
hooray!

              oh my mother:
the cindarella of nations of europe...
         i seriously can't do much worse than
that cocktail and carboot sale of tchaikovsky's
1812 overture...
   it's an overture!
              
really? the phantom of the opera is because...
of the overture?
last time i heard... prokofiev's lieutenant kijé
(kij - stick... kije... sticks)...
romance... was all a rave! "rave"...
              a nibbling at a crescendo...
    but hardly: then again: a nomad chorus...
a reminiscence... a memory lost: yet foretold...

and if... the anonymous provider...
of the full extent of the carmina burana...
      what if?
        i play... this cliche... this... my most
democratic oath: for the bettering of the voice
that could allow the congregation of
the many! my democratic oath: my quasi:
civic duty... me joining the club of the most
sober bottom's-up! pick'ld-week!

                 such are the affairs... hardly a worthiness
of a frenchman of pander...
or of being so blessed by an island...
when being neighbour of europe...
and easily bound to be found because:
france never too interest in the robot antics
of the scandinavians or what
was ever to be assured by iceland!

thus came the crude: skeleton waiting
to be refined... a peter schteele interlude of:
fancying a giant to a tumble...
i will not satisfy myself with a biography
outside of the realm of immediacy...
how do people write a biography without
the peacock of whim and of what's readily
available? a biography with a past...
automated: futurism... n'est ce pas?

         - i escape for the transcendental relief in
beauty... my own lack...
therefore better neglected: rather than denied...
it's my own that Belzeebub should
****** with maggots and acne synonyms onto
my face...

          i escape for beauty... not... sorry...
pardon my fwench: a ******* conversation
of the paupering sociopathic sort of
a job trotter sordid kin'!
                  if only crocodiles could cry...
they'd be warm-blooded...
and i would be year after year
an oscar nominee for a toast
of best actor at the oscars!

          pity... pity and the subsequent
dumbdrum!
                no! i do not want to guillotine this
affair with the autobiographic as long
as i am drinking and not any champagne
in sight... or... schnapps...
              
i best be off... this is enough frivolity
of the heart for a day's worth!

ah man... it was just a saturday night,
wet cement
   and street lamps glaring down at me...
it has to be something to do with
password, which i created at 17 "centimetres"...
what's troubling me is the beer i had
on the way... it could very well be dubbed
nameless... bavarian...
but unlike Budweiser... no fermentation of rice...
nothing like budweiser, that ****** albino
of beers...
          no no, nothing crisp either, like you might
drink it on a hot summer's day...
this was different...
     it was extracted from wheat...
ever drink liquidated wheat?
        what, not ever?
    that's why i took the picture which is sitting
in the background...
the beer was so memorable that i kept the actual
bottle...
      who would have thought, that by adding
wheat to the usual medley of barley and hops
you'd get something, worth writing about...
of course, as i spotted the onset of spring
and trees blooming with those little flowers...
  but that beer. ****, on, me...
        it's revolutionary what they do these days,
fermenting wheat, on top of barley and hops...
you almost want to eat grapes rather than drink wine...
want to start a revolution? start brewing beer
incorporating wheat...
   i was actually walking from street-lamp to street-lamp
reading the ****** label...
you sure this isn't belgian?
           either that, or i looked completely stupid...
  it's there though... it's not a budweiser
with that ill aqua-fresh feel of fermenting rice...
it's a co-op (supermarket chain name,
also do funerals, like multi-facet parlours,
or ****) -
what a ****** name for such a good beer though?
wheat beer... bavarian wheat beer:
   made with malted wheat and barley...
   who does that to a masterpiece?
   someone who probably whistles along
to symphony no. 2 in A-minor...
and never bothers with proper titles...
    like.... francis bacon's studies of lucian freud...
i'm guessing they're lazy about naming
their output, simply to they have so much of it,
and it has to look clerical, or let's say:
    surgical, imply that against
the other dictionary that humanity possesses:
an algorhithm...
insert the words: word for surgical, clean...
   ah! there it is, the little ******...
antisepctic...
         just as well... when writing can but does not
reach an elevated status...
   isn't the thing that you take to bed and doze off
using it as a sleeping pill...
    the bit of me that already stated:
i wanna be as rough and toiling as a lumberjack,
as the lumberjack said: writing was never
about creating a *****-magnet,
a bit like a cow, in a field, less bulls to **** me,
yet more bothersome paper-clips like flies to
daunt me... or that's what a tail is for,
to disperse them...
           the devil and a tail and an impotence of
a tail that he uses for a trouser-belt, but doesn't wear
trousers, merely picks it up, that flamboyant additive,
and swings it to a twirl of full circle,
walking away while whistling
and saying: the part where i say: i've eaten the heads
either side of a cooked chicken bone...
heads? those parts that need lubrication,
so the things that are later called gensis: arthritis...
but it was in all earnest, a magical beer,
a revelation... who could have thought that wheat,
that from wheat alone, i'd be walking the night
and actually sniffing the neck of a bottle...
   like an arab in a bakery, sniffing freshly baked baklava...
and that really is, pistaschio galore...
oh right... pistachio... no s... taccos and chow mein...
apologies, i sometimes forget what the "unspoken"
rules of **** schizoi consist of...
write it one way, speak it another way -
sure show... how about a Pinnoccio drinking a capuccino
donning ccinos? again: what i see as necessarily
dyslexic: it's actually pinocchio,
   and it's cappuccino... and it's chinos....
and all that, from the greek χ (chi)...
or whatever χ was doing when the family k c q
came about... i'm thinking q is a mistake given
the already stated optical implants that really do,
deviate from how to base clear-cut memories of:
in case we need to remember.
    i still know that s z and x have a thing going on.
that beer... budweiser tastes nothing like
it might, ever, don a crown to encompass the spectrum...
you're basically drinking this beer
           and you're thinking belgium, but it's
bavarian... and i'm currently in a youtube vlogger's
punctuation mode...
   watch way too much of that **** to end
up writing like i am, right now;
                                          eeek! a teenage girl! run!

I was born and raised in the ghetto
Talk with me and you'll know
I was satisfied with living mindlessly
I started looking around for any scam going
But listen to my story,  

I know the Babylon gangsters
Who said they got some friends back West in Bow
Said, "Why don't you work for us
we'll help bring you west
Well you will be a mandem at least"
and we'll throw some peanuts your way

We'll bring you west make you proper mandem
But you must spout our ******* as we tell you
since you have so much time
and nothing better to do
Just do as told
but the joke was on me
They had me just making a fool of myself
left me flat to see

Staying in the Island
( begging to come West)
Yes I know, I'll scam some easy money
and make out alright
Staying in the Island
( begging to come West)
Where I can be proper mandem
and can make some bread
Stuck in the Island
( begging to come West)
Think I'll do alright

Struggling for recognition, identity and easy dollars
I got a lot of problems, they told me not to fret
Said, "We will stand by you if you do as told
and If the going gets rough"
you know how to harrass, intimidate, bully lie and stalk

But when I started as their errand boy
They just said just continue bluffing
you're a scammer and gangmember
we will help you get to the West in yer dreams

Stuck in the Island
( begging to come West)
Yes I know, I'll scam some easy money
and make out alright
Stuck in the Island
( begging to come West)
Where my music's can make some bread
Stuck in the Island
( begging to come West)
Think I'll do alright

'Bout years has come and gone
And left me standing here
yelling my head off till no hair left
preaching scams and serving western gangsters
Thinking how it could have been
'Cause still I ain't nowhere

They surely taking me for a ride
Trample on my pride and stupify me
But I'll hold my head up high
and do all to flog my poor quality merch
the scam sideline to etch out some dollars
Man, I gotta lot of tears to cry

Stuck in the Island
( begging to come West)
Yes I know, I'll scam some easy money
and make out alright
Staying in the Island
( begging to come West)
Where the gangs are racking it in
Stuck in the Island
( begging to come West)
Think I'll do alright

you’d said I’d broken your heart
said it was all my fault
said it was because of me

you flaunt the scars on your heart
blaming me for the crosses and trails of blue and black

telling me how irresponsible I am while your hand fumbles in my pocket for my heart while you’re just reaching for my wallet

squeezing your arteries and veins
pouring it all in a wine cup
sipping it in front of everyone
and it’s my fault that you’re a vineyard

putting your legs on the table
boasting about the abrasions on your knees
bragging about the finger marks around your neck
and it’s my fault that you live in a brothel

swaggering about in your “cheap” designer nightgown
gloating about your lipstick that isn’t waterproof
and it’s my fault you’re not a trending makeup tutorial vlogger

you can go on and on
but why should I listen

when you were the one who juiced the life out of my heart made me kneel before you choked me till my neck caved in turned me into a loveless prune painted my face red with your blood

how can you say all that
when you’re really the murderer here

/                          me? most of the time?
contemplating crafting
the most pristine zeppelin dump...
what's that what's what?
something of a cross-breed,
like wallace the great:
trans-species, i.e. half horse
half ******... donkey...
it's like: what you see on the tin
   of baked beans
attitude -
     half diarrhoea -
   half constipation -
   zee wartenspiele
             (waiting games) -
quarter of what the humidity
is like in london (present at hand) -
maybe beijing, maybe not...
grass court season zenith
at wimbledon?
    you sure it's not savannah,
haystack flattened season
nadir?
   'alf and 'alf,
  and that brighton vlogger halfie...
'erp!
            did i say: i.e. the plural
      variant of E?
it's a gemini of taking a ****
while at the same time making a ****...
like art...
  in the latter day of burroughs...
shooting paint canisters
onto a canvas, and expecting
the same unconscious mechanißation
of a *******;
  and if you can't talk about
taking a ****?
   you really can't talk about anything
else.
think.... waterfalls...
    by tender loving care
   (or at least that's
              that TLC stands for).

attempting to beat the changes
to the youtube algorithm:

i found there's only one effective
way to combat the changes
to it,

      whereby you keep being
suggested the same ****,
over, and over, and over again...

back when youtube looked
like a thesaurus...
when no youtube vlogger appeared
in your take on exploring
the "ancient temple"
of a music store...

only now...
                  i chanced upon it...
how to bypass the current crap?
you need to find
a video... that's a full album...

e.g.
   wooden shjips album v...
and what popped up
in the suggestions?

  well... wow...

       föllakzoid album II
(deux, zwei, dwa, two,
        два, két, kaks, kaksi,
        ᛏᚹᛖᛁᚱ)

      i guess the time of actually
listening to entire albums
is back on the roulette...
    because looking for
individual songs is off the cards...

a time, in the words of
jack nicholson's joker:
'gentlemen! let's broaden our minds!
lawrence...'

1pm
not exactly but approx
circa
i.e. 12:45pm
and i'm kneeling again

to some distant prayer...

surely, if i were an aftternoon
******
if i were truly
a William Burroughs
admirer and
that would be me keeping
art alive
in Tangier
in some Arabian nightmare
some ****
fair enough
but also the thought
of an afternoon
listening to the children playing
in the playground
and life
life goes on

punitive measures
if i were an afternoon
******
oh
right
the reality
need the needle thread of music

just purged
had a chemistry experiment
in body
just purged
purged god i purged
i vomited the poison
out

a sobering purge
a sobering purge like
the purges from
food ******
of echo Rome

but i didn't eat i only
eat one meal a day
that i need to earn
and regardless whether
it's Christmas Lent
or Ramadan

it's the Bruce Springsteen year
in and out
and god i purged
didn't have enough time
to get to the toilet
instead spewed bile
onto the bedroom floor
then mopped it up
then spewed more bile into
the sink

then felt the body
like yesterday i felt
a sharp pain in my tooth
and thus felt the gravity
of bone
of flesh
of corruptibility
of morality
now i'm more sober and emotional
than discontent and
disillusioned half-enmotional
and high or drunk

i still need to buy onions
for the tomato sauce

those meatballs will need mixing
with breadcrumbs
and cumin
and coriander
and that sauce will need to be perfect

yeah
if i'm not tripping i should be tripping
but where did that old man with his
dog disappear to
the one that kept talking to the dog
like the dog could be a chair
because the man just
kept dictating SIT
SIT
I TOLD YOU TWICE
SIT
SIT
           woof! bark bark! woof bark!

then so clued up about being in a queue
that i forgot the thousands
of verbal cues in my head
instead i just heard: BLAH BLAH BLAH

the election cycle is on
in Britain and in America
and the world emerges with another
Russophobia
as if it were an Islamophobia
and who was that Russian
spy-op hacker
youtube influence-R

      the subjectivity of THE experience
with the objectivity of A experience
objective (indefinite) experience
subjective (definite) experience...

      these are my letter to Socrates
asking:
is this how the "problem" of universals
and particulars can be fashioned
to a suitable rubric of explanations
pedagogic?

                the logic of unraveling in and with
children...

       upon hearing my tongue
i heard that some Russian paid people
to storm the pitch
and pay them 30 million rubles
and within 20 seconds
a German or a Spaniard claimed
the pitch...

                   maybe some greater beloning
a me to i to you
and out through          to self and other...

      but i purged to sober
i purged to sober
because this day has been too good
although i'd never think to say

that i walked into a bank
like Neville Chamberlain
with a flimsy piece of paper
like from Munich
agreed upon toilets
and chimneys
i mean this Power of Attorney
that was just stamped
by a half-baked translator (in memorandum)
photograph and then printed
instead i needed a 16 page document
with all her crying
and whimpering
her late much late attended to for concern
of affection from a brother
now brain in the fish tank
and just because the word
euthanasia is
only
a word that came from my mind
i think of the ***** turmoil
of uncovering secrets in man
even this
supposed best friend and *** partner
Marius
who owes my uncle 300,000 zloty
and perhaps some land
should he forgo the debt
well but now fishbowl St Martin
is having a trip that i could only hope to once
venture into on a giant mushroom!

painless and likewise voidless
a peering black barnacle
with eyes and tongue
this unavoidable shapeshifter
and sieve-R of jurisprudence
this unavoidable date and time
and hopelessness vigor
that irritates the stomach
glazes the eyes
and fills all these rooms with a blank
evidence of emptiness

in a distance a Dalai Lama
who i don't know is Buddha
a cosmopolitan glob trotter or what
is that with St Peter
some inheritance tax
since the rest of us petty mortals
are living lives on loan
do these figures in the world
represent enforced reincarnation
thus these people
are paying the inheritance tax, Pope,
Dalai Lama...
Emir of Baghdad...
Sufiz of Damascus

      i petty mortal living a life
on a loan
this body
this brain this everything loaned
not something i can credit
with bad decision
without the debtor's sinking into
a wheel of money a chair
of money a lamp of money
a paracetamol of money
a book of money
a cushion a bed a house a money
in logical inflation from £100,000
to £0.01
                          the blood
and vitality of inanimate, dead objects,
that they get moved
sold
contested
abbreviated and joyed at

     hands that move chairs
and make chairs
hand each other pocket doses of
value and devalue
nothing mystical except the slow
realization
by purge so rewarding
by purge so electrifying
so illuminating
that one hour residing
in bed while the day busies itself
with its busiest selves

perhaps alternatively
on a Faroe Island
      and aging to some Scandinavian myth
with solitude and letters
not this champagne milkshake
of human emotions
this snot these tears
this phlegm and all the love juices
this ear wax this sinew
these tendons and shaking hands...

Mellstroy -
so my father wasn't bullshitting me...

"Three pitch invaders stormed the Wembley turf at the Champions League final after being promised £300,000 by a controversial Russian streamer, it has emerged. The troublemakers wore t-shirts promoting 'Mellstroy', a scandalous vlogger who offered the prize reward to anyone who would invade the pitch in his name."

      https://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-13484263/Champions-League-final-pitch-invaders-Russian-streamer-Mellstory.­html

archiving websites...
that's actually an art in a way
well it is a bureaucratic art-form

/blog.pagefreezer.com/how-do-you-archive-website

$7.2 million USD
by some count of the casino
and i think of myself
and my use of bet365
and in general everything that i do
and my life
and i do think about my life
and if i were brain frozen
half my grey matter evaporated
in my frontal cortex
and that's Martin
two massive holes in his mind
and i can literally throw
anything in there
like Joyce threw Finnegans Wake
into his schizophrenic daughter
is that price
we pay to venture into writing
beyond what's offered in
the Bible
i just wonder how can we dare
to want so much
as to not speak
and instead write

the grey and metallic tinge
of Warsaw on a cloudy day
while very sunny in London
and Glasgow...

perhaps if half my brain evaporated
i would write some astounding
poems that
perhaps i could foresee
no better life than that on the page
like right now
because beyond what's available
there is no mojito under a palm tree
on a beach with the woman
i just might love

this life is brutal and how begging
we are to disbelieve that to be true.