Thank you Beauty Gurus for telling me that I can be beautiful inside and out

Thank you to the Gamers who show me that even if you get frustrated you have to keep going on

Thank you to the Vloggers who showed me that even when I'm depressed I can always count on them

Thank you to the Musicians who make beautiful music just to make me or themselves happy

Thank you to all the rest who spend hours just to make us happy

i can move from the highly lyrical into what's deemed
modern -
        poetising within a prosaic framework,
gone are coordinates that would
define a poem on the premise of:
whether there's a pun in it.
       sure, poems as chicken scratches
to what would otherwise be an English
teacher's *******: pulverising
a haiku to mean an infinite number of things,
and about a dozen essays by students.
the opposite of what's nonetheless:
    squeezing out juice from an already
squeezed out lemon... and i mean lemon
because there's a threshold...
           poetry is tarnished by what i call
the over-scientification of language...
                 only poetry attracts
so much linguistic categorisation,
so much morge tenure, so much dissection,
before poetry is even spoken
it has already been dissected - a befitting
target practice for budding medicine students...
          and some even deem it a outlet to
their professions: as if poetry was nothing
but a colouring-in book compared to
a da Vinci sketch.
                why not become a martyr for the ******
art? sickly sweet with its rhyme,
  the auxiliary recommendation on a birthday
card... which upon industrialisation
                               is nothing more than
    a thumping of a hammer near a protruding
nail in a crucifix... but a hammer that never
   makes contact with the nail...
why ***** this art, because of the industrious
nature of scribblers exacted to 600 pages worth
of a novel, when, perhaps, one thing is said
and can be said to be actually memorable?
well: there is a greater demand for handcrafted
objects than Ikea veneer, that much can be said...
it takes a few glugs of whiskey and a few cigarettes
to get the final product...
            it doesn't take industriousness -
poetry requires handcrafting, and what's revolutionary
about our times? they once claimed
     southpaws to be of diabolical design,
   but now both hands are used when "writing",
sure, the archaic fluidity of the movement of the hand
is gone: so as i write, i do the cliche of a
peasant listening to classical music while pretending
to conduct an orchestra, that finicky maestro
hand gesture... waltz before you can walk
is all i have to say... and yes:
we either have our Humphrey Bogart moments,
or Forrest Gump moments...
                  Hanks did the miraculous -
play the idiot, and play the serious role -
     which was harder to do, Mr. Bean or Black Adder?
it's hard to play the village idiot while
    being submerged in the bile of malice
   and staring into attempted feats of quasi intelligence...
but you get the hang of it...
   your eyes become like nuggets of coal...
           whereby those that incite pity wet them,
and those that incite contempt: light them up...
        by the time they have burned out...
they have turned into nuggets of sulphur -
          inorganic methane - yellowish grit:
as some Dalton said - could the cliffs of Dover ever
be perceived as sulphuric? the Sulphuric Cliffs
of Dover... apparently this is what defined
London when Christopher Wren took to
ushering in a foundation as Nero did to Rome:
on the chessboard of stone.
        and yes... i can be seen as the oppressor,
after all, i live in a country that prizes its suburban
housing as if miniature castles...
and gardens... boy these people love their gardens...
but they never use them!
    i can use a window to my advantage,
sit on the windowsill and smoke a cigarette and drink
a whiskey, unafraid of voyeurism...
                    pompous in my presence there,
perched like a crow, grinding all life into a halt
as my neighbours peer into the recesses of
    what's 4 by 4 by 4 of living (civil) rooms...
       can we but change the name of this space?
can we call living rooms civil rooms,
   where we acknowledge some sort of civility
rather than a wrestling for the television remote?
i can make little things give me an advantage,
if the toilet is being occupied,
  i'll use the garden as my toilet...
           i feel complete disdain for people who
"require" a garden, but never use it... of people
who "require" a garden, but are never seen in it...
   i'm hardly a c.c.t.v. surveillance object,
   but i feel that over-exposure to ******* reads
as a counter in that: people start to become
      phobic about voyeurism... as universities claim
them to be: "caught with your hand down your trousers
in a safespace", where dolphins jump over
rainbows and unicorns speak Haitian voodoo!
              there is this fear, which is why i'll use the
garden more than the people around me...
          which means: owning a garden is the last
stronghold of moving into an urban environment from
a rural one...
             or perhaps i'm just good at what i do
           and the last point becomes a tangent i care not
to continue... should i ask
            (whether that's true)?
            i have this throbbing sensation in my eyes
when i write such things and overhear
  what's necessary to rereading books in snippets -
which is better than regurgitating maxims
    as if some truth will magically pop-up (once more)
like a Leprechaun with a *** of gold -
  a new film, and hence the all important soundtrack.
rereading books in snippet format reveals much
more than a memorable quote,
           given there's an adequate soundtrack
to accompany you revisiting the book you managed
to take on a weekend holiday (like a girlfriend),
  like lawrence lipton's the holy barbarians...
   (all about the beats)...
              the snippet? chapter 15, the social lie
(martino publishing mansfield centre 2009), pp. 294 - 296...
      the music? ~20minutes into http://tinyurl.com/zdvp8sc
(ben salisbury & geoff barrow)... or what
i image to be a toned down version of
                 ...
) interlude... wacko gets summoned to steal a mouse
from a cat...
      double time... the mouse is unharmed...
all action takes place in the garden...
   running after a cat, catching the ghostly mouse,
i mean: frozen by fear... senile little thing...
     petting the mouse... obviously within the
framework: the most famous mouse in the world
scenario... mouse is put into my neighbour's
garden: where it came from: which kinda makes
this whole thing a practice in Hinduism
     (i can't stop the industrialisation of
farming pigs or chickens or cows...
      so ******* to the sourced sustainably,
organic chickens et al.)...                                 (
i was looking for something as equally pulverising
as ¥ (chemical brother's
song life is sweet)...
      i guess i found it...
                            and what was that bit about
not getting hassle on the internet?
                      i can't force people to read my stuff...
how i love this idea of a gym and making an effort...
both the writer and the reader entwined -
rather than watching you-tube vloggers treat their audience
like penguins feeding their chicks regurgitation as part of
               the info-wars... alter news: propaganda.
'what is the disaffiliate disaffiliating himself from?
      the immense myth promulgated from Madison Ave.
& Morningside Heights...
              the professors and advertisement men (indistinguishable
these days, or in those days - apparently)...
   that intellectual achievement lies within the social order
and that you can be a great poet as an advertising man,
a great thinker as a professor...' hence the myth.
              summarised later as:
'the entire pressure of social order is to make
         literature into advertisement.'
  and why do they shoot people in North Korea and
Saudi Arabia (well, chop more than shoot)?
              bad literature, a.k.a. bad advertisement.
am i a bad advertiser?         point being: am i selling anything?
oh gee! i just might be...
   but i feel there's no need to oppress people into
reading something...         as was the same with
my democratic romance with a personal library of mine:
   how to create a democratic representation
of literature: or how to hear as many people out...
   even those alive would see the backlog of
stale books of the dead that have been under-appreciated
and need a ****** into the future.
        perhaps not Plato...
                    that's not a book, that's a column...
but i despise how feminism ignores its greatest asset...
Mary Shelley... no woman could have single-handedly
become so celebrated in pop culture...
               ex_machina is obviously a revamp of Frankenstein...
Mary Shelley is the embodiment of a woman worthy
a continual revised celebration...
                       you can see her celebrated more times than
any politically minded feminist of whatever 1st 2nd or
3rd movement: because she has the ability to
    turn a man's ego into a ******* umpf!
  like a cat listening in on a scuttling mouse...
              she testifies that women have supreme equality
in the pop culture spheres... after all: Frankenstein is
ugly... Ava? just beyond creepy...
                    she has absolutely no understandable
motives of what Frankenstein intended...
   it not merely creating artificial life...
                    it's about utilising it for a purpose:
in this case a housewife and *** toy... what was Frankenstein
expected to do?         there's no motive other than
     a per se intention... an open & closed argument...
was the monster going to be... a butler?
                  and instead of rebelling against a motive
that awaits her... the rebellion against a per se leaves
Frankenstein's monster driven toward isolation...
       Ava? she's already exposed to an interaction
and what's to be her subsequent interaction for the purpose
of being a maid and a *** toy... which doesn't drive
her to an isolation scenario... because the per se
concept is too complicated for her to establish...
    given she's defined as "artificial" intelligence,
she has to feed on an analysis-synthesis dynamic:
    to absolve herself from any notion of being intelligent:
but artificial... the scary part is that without a per se
element to her knowledge acquisition:
                  she sees no meaninglessness to her life -
she is created for certain customary necessities -
     Frankenstein's monster doesn't have that capacity
to acquire knowledge in an analytically-synthetic
dynamic -
  but i still don't understand why intelligence can
be artificial / faked... when man, if not intending to
  create an intelligence matrix outside of his own...
           will usually fake it, or create a superficial intelligence...
   this is the part where you get to play with
etymology, or at least apply etymology to better conceptualise
what some would call: a synonym-proximity barrier...
               which can be jargon to some,
   but in fact it represents "nuances" or nanometric differences
that is understood to imply: feverishness of
   the peacocking staging of vocab for rhetorical purposes...
if we only had a monochromatic utility for language:
people would be discouraged from talking fervently,
passionately, enthusiastically... rhetorically;
as suggested: is artificial intelligence
                                    superficial intelligence?
  or how to sharpen a distinction? or to what purpose
is making an illusion purposive, given that the already
   established technology is meant to be purposive,
as in replacing labour on the assembly line...
                     given that: it's never about faking it.

i hate it when a ~haiku is forced upon me, but such
is the case, and it's not a case of dittoing out
a mechanical aspect of that body that's
known as vocabulary:
thus, suddenly, as if a ****, or
a reflex the tongue commanded
the entire body -
left-wing obstructions gave way to
right-wing rebelliousness -
    the left said the tongue was no dagger,
the right said: merely a dagger -
the gyroid: or the muscles we never thought
existed! lanky tendons, etc.
    never the microscopic proof reductionism
and never the telescopic proof           ",
always somewhere in the middle:
and that's about right.
               i wrote a poem, it sounded about right
and then i get the wanked-over shoulder
calling it life-support dandruff
because of the many sprouts possible -
as ever: some come and give a voice unto
the people, and some come and give an ought
unto the people.
               a choice that's mutually inclusive
of thought and choice as a battleground
for the mechanisation of language into
sulphur gas and bayonets
and a thousand wildcards charging and screaming
lost toward the bewilderment of
   forgotten sexting.
      what a mighty affair:
the only country delving the prospect of
an atom bomb being dropped again doesn't believe
in munition economics and doesn't see
that the paranoia can be stopped when the capitalist
sober-heads enter and say: but where's the profit?
there's not profit in an atom bomb:
it ends too soon,
     you never got a Hollywood chapter yoyo
      concerning Hiroshima or Nagasaki...
you got one about Pearl Harbor...
a competent act of war... but not like our
civilians really matter: we civilians got the treatment
of being active members of the army,
while the army personnel were given civilian
Pilate status, the army was given civilian status
and the Japanese civilians were given army status...
oh forget the noodle swindler -
that handwritten hoola-hoop spinster of
carbohydrates is long gone...
          or the greatest paranoia against all other
nations comes from a nation that actually used the weapon!
       i could write a haiku version of what i lost,
but i'll still have to write something about you-tube
vloggers and how they are the newest version
of the objective propaganda machine that's in
the Islamic camp of merchants...
       prophet-merchant? give me a break:
if his word doesn't sell, then who's does?
my endorsement? less of a cosmetic light-touch surgeon
attitude, my endorsement is that of
Morphy Richards' Soup Maker...
cooking pumpkin soup...
  pumpkin... well: it's hardly an easy peel when it
comes to cooking butternut squash...
it's a disaster! a hell to endure! no wonder it's the veg
that frighten offs the ghouls and the ghost
you can't peel it, you have to Apache skin it
like getting a colonial wig: scalping your way into
the high court, albeit minus the greyish curls -
******* is a king of culinary demises
that were sought out expeditions -
you have to knife your way beneath the snail-like
shell and then there's that cobweb of mush
with intrinsic fake seeds / flies lodged in
the orange cobweb - for all that effort
i appreciate it more as a lampshade than a food
source... but then the advertised starving Africans
as anti-colonial compensation for "our"
grandfather's recollection of monochromatic cultures,
before globalisation took off.. hmm.
the soup? pumpkin, potato, onion, garlic,
nutmeg, paprika, chicken stock,
salt and pepper to taste...
tomorrow? a pumpkin risotto...
hey! seasonal abundance, Spanish strawberries
in late winter are too watery anyway...
   people forgot that certain things taste better
in season, that's namely fruits and vegetables...
   go outside your fancy, outside your whim,
you'll finally have to say: my eyes eat
at the very credibility of such things being
there without the season... but my tongue does not
taste the thing that requires a pentagonal sense
honing in toward an agreed to democracy:
it ain't there... as ever autumnal fruits make their
way toward the culinary redcarpet -
                   apples, pears....
     but the real ice brokers remain tangled in
the gnostics of dairy *****: you only see the *****
when the milk turns sour...
              and the two segregate
their cauliflower bergs and that pristine seethrough
        matrix -
then it's like watching the 1054 schism:
          aquasal herring
                               and aquadulci tench -
as painful as listening to my father speak english:
it's just ****** painful,
i write english and speak it like an Anglo
   and he speaks it like an Arab:
with me it's: left right left right left right
and his is an ancient form of actual Latin
              right left right left right left -
of the tongues that appropriated the Latin lingua
optics that weren't conquered it's the same as it was
for Seneca of Virgil, e.g. red beast / proof of all
scientific generic category principle: **** sapiens
                  upright man / bestia rufus -
and that's still orange beast - then aliq for yellow:
then liquid and runny khaki - a monetary equivalent
of money.
          but of the tongues
                      which is why i kept my mother tongue,
i can't imagine what would have been the case
had i not kept it intact... i'd be whitey boy bleached
into an anaemic Arian with those rubbery red
             lost for words rabbit crazy irises that
albinos sport when on the sociopathic treadmill:
that's a daily commute for most people.
i should have anticipated something better coming
out of a forced bad gateway message when
i tried to published and didn't save the outcry...
but it was never a reality when defined by a few
people... it always necessarily the many,
the market square, the hustle and bustle,
     then again few took to ****** to say love...
understandable: if something is called private
it's not called reality, because so many people
have so much **** to say in public that they
treat private life as a tabernacle -
reverse that and suddenly you find people
who possess a "voice for the multitude",
but not (not oddly enough) a thought -
ah the caring scream when not bound to
the horror genre of politics: it's too late!
               end here: a prior to rather than, a
desirably said to appease and conform:
by now we're all cited as having only said
an onomatopoeia of what words should sound like -
we're found hacking a door to shreds with
an axe, rather than merely curling our hands
so the knuckles can be used to knock on the door.
still, i made pumpkin soup today,
tomorrow i'll make a pumpkin risotto -
and the pumpkin is, rightfully, the halloween king
of all vegetables: i am not surprised it's the perfect
lampshade people leave outdoors -
hell of a thing to peel, a butternut squash
would have been simpler to make...
but for the first time in my life:
  i actually appreciate the colour orange...
as said: cooker orange is beyond that fluorescent
acidity of a citrus fruit:
  cooked orange is actually grand...
raw citrus orange?                and a handful
of creepy crawlies.
    funny how the spectrum necessarily made me
endorse a soup maker, rather than the next
big thing in the realm of toothpaste and mascara.

Crazy are the people
Who are addicts to buying toilet rolls
I don’t know their situation
But they rush for toilet paper
Like the sales at Boxing Day
I think they are crazy
Very crazy indeed
You see they get into fist fights
Over a silly thing like toilet paper
Crazy are the people
I think they are just
As bad as junkies
Cause they are very scared
You can’t change people
But you can say that they are crazy
Treating the toilet paper rush
Like the Boxing Day sales
Very very mental mate
The YouTube vloggers agree with me
It is totally stupid that people rush
For toilet paper
The people who really need it
MISS OUT
Which is totally mental
Just like the people
Crazy are the people
Who get in a panic for toilet rolls
I can’t see the connection
With corona virus and toilet rolls
I prefer to be like the vloggers
And just live my life
Because fighting over toilet paper
Is really dumb indeed
And is not who I am

i've sifted through all the youtube videos
of vloggers and...
i'm not sure why i don't go back to
listening to BBC radio 4...
it can be said: you either "move up" to talk radio
from having listened to classical music
or you "move down" and listen to jazz...

i only watched a snipped of:
sometimes always never - starring bill nighy...
and i wanted to watch more...
but... nothing came in the way...
i felt like sitting in the kitchen on a stool
drinking a san miguel beer and smoking
a cigarette: come night i've shot all the birds
dead... there's only me never wishing
to sigh... the vacuum and some wind...

how did i get drawn into vlogging...
i will never know... i listen like a patient
parent and it's still: knock-knock no one answers...
because... this isn't BBC Radio 4...
so a welcome return to... being my own d.j.

in and out of whims... today's whim...
grant green's: green blue...
when jazz is still somehow the blues...

it's not an urban myth...
when the ****** alcoholics became desperate
and there was a shortage of *****...
they'd filter a bottle of denaturant through
a slice of sour-crust bread...
yes... that fluorescent purple liquid...
methylated alcohol...
        and here's not me writing about going
to an irish catholic school where...
they would teach 10year olds about
the pit-falls of sniffing glue...
no mention of LSD mind you...

oh yeah... they would filter the denaturant
through a slice of sour-crust bread...
and then drink it...
otherwise i don't know how they ended
up a tier above drinking perfumes...

competition... competition...
is it always about competition?
what about jobs that are fixed... and do not
allow competition...
how there's a rigid schedule and what not...
i mean... a self-employed taxi driver
can compete... but it's hardly possible
for a bus driver to act like a taxi driver...
not everything is a hand in poker
or...               irregular plumbing...
and sure... i too would be jealous of
all the *** elsewhere...
if i weren't the piston and the sweat and...
the only joy i ever got from ***
was seeing her moan...
                      and that's... toothpicks compared
to when you can be walking through
a square mile of pines and only pines...
and pine needles...

- nonetheless i had to make sure...
is a haig club whiskey worth all that it's worth...
at 25 quid per 70cl?
if it wasn't on a discount... i wouldn't...
i'd stick to the reserve...
problem... well... you can sell beer in cans...
provided you have a glass to pour it in...
for the cushion of head of whipping cream
to sooth your lips on...
you can sell a beer in brown bottles you can
sell beer in green bottles...
you might get away with selling beer in
clear bottles: if it's a corona beer and -esque...
but you can't...
you simply can't get away with selling
whiskey in... purple tinged bottles...

the haig club is a ******: over-priced whiskey...
what's with the scots brewing everything
so smoky?! to begin with?
i get the smoked salmon... but no...
the irish at least allow their whiskey
to mellow... sweeten a bit...
you can drink an irish moon down and out
through and into a dipper of
the lips making plucking sounds befitting
a connoisseur...

but the gig is up when you over-price your
whiske... only because you're selling it
in purple glass bottles...
again: is it whiskey i'm drinking or is it
a perfume? i might as well be drinking perfume...
good that the "whiskey" was on a discount...

interlude: finally melville caught a goldfish
and all of his wishes were: let it be a whale,
let it be a whale, let it be a whale...
      
there's no way in hell getting away selling
over-priced whiskey...
just because the bottle looks "groovy"...
and it's all purple...
as i already mentioned...
    purple... purple reminds me of...
those desperado alcoholics from under
the iron curtain who would filter a bottle of
denaturant through a slice of sour-crust bread...

whiskey and purple... sorry... ms. amber...
and they're selling this over-priced ****
like it wasn't supposed to be equivalent to
a commoners' bells' whiskers 'n' scratches...

a girlfriend of the remains of a bottle...
if you see a tank parked... and it's not a warzone...
let me know... i'd love to gear it up
for a salvo for, no particular reason other than
to make up for straight-lines with a zigzag...

these four walls, this roof... this floor...
this irritated bladder...
this hope for an 8 hour kipper and for midnight
not having to be extended toward sunrise of
a 6am March...

off-the-cut when writing comes this...
spontaneously and lazily...
like it might be reading a proper fold-out
of a sunday newspaper in england...
a harem for each time i ****** off
and performed a genocide into a tissue
on the throne of thrones...
and subsequently took a shower having
simultaneously taken a ****...
and all things remained swan-esque:
monogamous: or waiting for her to come
to aged mid-life and in crisis...

what with: the children or the cats?
the cats or the grandchildren?
i have yet to come across a grave with
an epitaph...
                        again... some reading into:
marquis de sade: i'm waiting for my libido
to fizzle out... otherwise what shame
is there... when i'd need a harem...
a solo project doesn't even help the matters...
so what shame is there:
it's hardly going to turn a profit
if i plug in... **** please oh please
myself on cam in a sultry room...

last time i heard: all that's needed is a toilet
and a screaming ****...
there's no need to broadcast the whole affair...
then again... this was only going
to be a critique of the haig club whiskey...
sold in purple glass bottles...
over-priced...

in a love paralysis... esp. concerning
the "enchanted" periods of lapse of attention
to mind the and any details...

that the monolingual will play a game
of scrabble or solve a crossword puzzle
is his testament to not bothering to learn
a second language...
the bilingual schizoid debate...
or no debate...
                    
a bed fit for two... but then my shadow is
a glutton and a miser and a...
everything that's supposed to be scortched
under the sun...
melted from sand to somehow make glass...
coy fear: the music of...
leaving vacuums and absences...
and cringe...

                     if this was only ever easy...
i'd write this to later don a niqab...
         but lucky me there's a difference between
the french public intellectual...
and an english public intellectual...
of the latter: the public yet not aware of
media scorn... "free media"...
as free as tabloid papers come tomorrow...

a swift hand on democracy... a quick shuffle...
a bit like an iron grip in autocracy...
as long as there's no focus...
no trained eye... a mirage of a "passing of power"...

how overtly faux pas politico of moi...

                   lazily creeping toward golgotha...
and all those exhausted images...
a richard broutigan would call it:
slouching toward...
                       that others live the fullest
and their lovliest...
that they have teeth and grit and sandpaper's
worth of skin to itch a sketch with...
applause! applause!

jerks off every night...
but never makes a single buck from it...
as "others" might... doing it before a camera...
then again: *** is not exactly a flick
light switch either...
neurological patterns and what not...
the lost cinema - the everyday cinema -
the holy trinity of **** **** and *****...
the genocide of scrambled eggs with no yoke...

otherwise know as liberation
from not being circumcised...
                            and no other crescent motiff.

you don't sell whiskey in purple glass bottles!
over-priced, an apology to ms. amber,
outside the bedroom there's still the obvious chance
of keeping up with...
the queue at a supermarket cashier's...
there's the polka-dotted umbrella...
there's the luftwaffe precision pigeon
dropping a proper blitz "cranium" on
a bowler hat in trafalgar sq....
                     there's all this tsunami of the mundane
that keeps the clock a worthwhile
artefact to keep to mind the horizons and
pitfalls of a single day...

call it the heart of the house: a clock...
call it an itchy hand when the trouser pockets
are empty...
call it a *** note...
my god... a return to a formality of language
via a dear sir, letter...

       none of this is to be minded as:
yours sincerely / faithfully.

i've seen the commentary...
but let's do the ratios...
youtubers sometimes tend to boast
about their subscribes,
notably dr. steve turley,
100K (100,000)
and styxhexenhammer666
  30K (30,000)...
   yes, i know that a chris isaack
track is, a tad bit too much
reminiscent of Abba...
point being? my turn...
so...
        the ratio... i have 138
followers... but my post popular
"poem" ranks at around
   4,700 views...
an average dr. steve turley video
ranks in at 20,000,
and with subscribers numbering
100,000...
          whole styxhexenhammer666,
30,000 subscribers, but
at average counts of views at hovering
past the 1,000 mark...
now the ratios...
please let me be wrong, please
let me be wrong...

0.5 for dr. steve turley
lopsided ratios:
100,000 / 20,000....

styxhexenhammer666
comes in at 30...
30,000 / 1,000...

me?
i come in at... ha ha!
5,700 / 138
34.057...

           i'm not boasting...
but i hate to see decent people boast
about their prescription rates,
but then...
                 0.029...
but within the confines of
   giving an answer back...
you get the picture...
their viewers plummet...
the ratios do not add up...

i'd boast, sure as hell i'd boast...
but... i sorta don't feel like it...
i never saw the bonus side of boasting
when it came to numbers...
more subscribers,
than views?
           big ******* problem...

so... proud, concerning, what?!
oh... wait...
i just figured this out
differently...

0.033 (styxhexenhammer666)
and 0.2 (dr. steve turley)...

oh wait... dr. steve turley: circa 74,000
subscribers...
and the average viewership
of a video circa 21,000?
    3.52....
              0.02837....

ola! village people!
          counter ratios...
views : subscribers
counter to subscribers : views
(in ratio)....

            that age old relativism
of "success"...
give me a minute, i need to work
on the schematic rubric...

    views : subscribers              |         subscribers : views

(a) ~5700 ÷ 138                                        (a) 138 ÷ ~5700
                                = 41.30                                           = 0.024

(b) ~1000 ÷ ~30,000                               (b) ~30,000 ÷ ~1000
                            = 0.033                                          = 300

(c) ~21,000 ÷ ~70,000                         (c) ~70,000 ÷ ~21,000
                  = 0.284                                                           = 3.52


(a) denoting me,
(b) denoting sythexenhammer666
(c) denoting dr. steve turley

so wait, give me a minute...
since we're all so happy
******* a boasting match...
i have... less subscribers...
but  more views...
than people who have more,
subscribers... but less views?

i know i'm fiddling with the numbers...
but to use but one instance...
i have more views than
i have subscribers...

while these youtube vloggers have
more subscribers than
they have views...

           interesting...
but if everyone's going to be playing
the ******* numbers game...
i thought:
might as well bring by bucket and *****
into this sand-pit,
and see if i can play along
with these kids...
citing my attempt at a massive *****...
you never know:
it could work!

Ok Ok so.. Lemme go..
I'm about to be pushed so.
Over the edge from Nice and Pretty.
Cute Woman Queendom, sitting quietly.
Gone  and push me.
Unquote just prose.
I'm coming with ink dropped worded sorrows of long awaited ****** blows.
Rock some sense with unpinned fellows. Leave ya crying Oh there she goes!'
I'm not feeling these fingered twisted rhyming lines. I need to break free of this kind.
Hit that like button utubers redundant pushin.
That constant cries style influencin.
Bossy commenting well im in my feelings.
Gonna speak my own mind. Nothing of nicety whines and rhyming fines.
I need to Grab and twist foolishness into mental jabs and knock out some bull* fist of
Minds mental blocks.
Brain washed dead locks.
Of what should be cute friends. Taking away my time on romantics.
Due to blows behind our backs fighting instead of igniting.
Social caves for love drought hungered non slaves.
Assisting in climatic mental dynamics.
To sooth dehydrated souls. In a long over spent Pandemic.
Wiping tears by phones lines, from pictures of systemic vlogged services.
Sick of the youtube beefs in the youtube streets.
Where everybody is against somebody.
Haters be gone!
Battle backs from controversies wrong.
Too many Vlogged accounts operates from inner hates.
Not in the club of rejoicing from online down falls.
Cause the wicked want to judge Advocates for the wounded  by spilling of pains.
Not understanding why a caged bird sangs.
My venting.
Is where I release for healing.
Haters would never seek to help others be free.
I can see why the angry delivery.
Why the rough words from ones mouth flow freely.
Why A vloggers delivery may not be for you but rocks for me.
But has its place in society.
So Let them be.
Stop, anxiety we can move in better differential views.
Keeping hate on back burner stoves, waiting on smoked signal cues.
Or there would eventually be an explosion in corruption.
And like a mass event would be just wasted consumption.
Don't Judge. You can no longer even tell your
striking and causing unneeded reactions. Obsessing.
Boom Boom speculations are not factualization..
Drop your theories of conspiracies.
If you think your standing rejoicing at others down falls,
Soon your own drama will be called.
I'ma sit back and stay paused stay clear in my empathy
and watch rise the cleansing of opinionated hands.
The truth for nonjudging fans. The Tv social media free lands.
A Creator's channels  rights to their own fans.
Clear of hateful bandits and tyrants!
Nuff time on spilled rants.
SelinaSharday rose s.a.m 2021 9-3

.what the most plush drink i've ever had? well, i'm drinking it now... Tennessee honey liquor by Jackie boy... mm, yum as ****... just ice, no mixer... what do you expect? at 35% vol strength, you're going to enjoy it on its own... mind you... i am going to a country where there are no 37.5% vodkas... 40%: standard.

- but i won't be drinking,
                 odd how i can turn off the drinking
whenever i go back, "home"...
it will be winter, really short days...
limited internet access, or, literally none...
and a 3 volume book i decided
to get through...
   the English language will be turned off,
and i'll be pulverized by
the language, t.v. radio,
everyone around me...
   not a single word of English being
spoken...
         it's nice to get away from
all the Anglophone drama,
whether on the internet with the vloggers,
or anyone for that matter...
small town Poland...
          early nights in the mid-afternoons,
a book, a single lamp light...
mind you... why do people always
choose to read a book on a beach?
how about i sleep in a lit oven?
or next to the radiator with a closed
window?
   i do not claim to be a quick reader,
i don't like reading quickly...
i already talk quickly...
       "slow" reading is so much more
engaging...
   but at least i chose a book that's
just over 1000 pages...
   5 weeks away? yeah, i should be
able to do it...
          what's it about?
the Great Deluge... of Poland...
   by the Swedes, when our aristocratic
democracy, the electoral authority
decided to give the throne to a Swede,
and subsequently his older brother invaded...
a historic epic, fiction, with
a pinch of historical truth...
you could even call it a reading holiday...
i.e. go to a place colder that's much
colder than where you heading out from...
and... make sure you're surrounded
by old people, perhaps your grandparents...
****! i knew i forgot something
when packing...
how am i going to cook them curries
when i haven't packed the spices?!
well... i could gamble on feeling refreshed
with 4 hours sleep...
or i could drink this right here
Tennessee honey liquor...
    lie down for an hour with closed
eyes, to rest them,
but prior to... prepare the spices...
the latter...
                  power naps are for the Japanese...
in their 15 minute hotspots...
oh they have them... sleeping hubs...
**** that sort insomnia diet...
give me a decent 8 and we're cool...
ugh... but the dreaded thought...
i live in relative isolation...
i interact with less people than
i have fingers... on one hand (most of the time)...
the dreaded airport...
the moment i walk into an airport
i just think of... transported livestock...
the liquor will certain take off the edge...
from having to see so many people
all at the same time...
               plus, i've done longer stretches
of staying awake...
dunno... once i might have teased
the 48 hour mark...
but with this beauty of a liquor in me...
bah!                 easy-peasy-Japanese;

and the music i'm taking with me...
on C.D. (oh! the travesty,
employing technology from the 1980s!):

dikanda - muzyka czterech strong wschodu,
żywiołwak - nowa ex-tradycja
wager - an assortment
schumann - fantastic pieces op. 12
beethoven - symphony IX in d-moll op. 125
egberto gismonti - solo
sonic youth - *****
fairport convention - liege and lief
neon neon - praxis makes perfect
queens of the stone age - rated R
!!! - strange weather, isn't it
handel - music for the royal fireworks
water music...

that certainly packs a punch...
now...
         to associated myself
with making portions of relevant
spices for the curries i'll be cooking.

I hate  political conversations
Especially ones about our dear nation
Should I start with the politician’s lies
Or society’s bias?
Yes, I am young and I don’t know much
But did you see how hard she clenched her purse?
Youths wanna be big
But don’t want to stoop to dig
Trying to look for shortcuts to success
That carries no stress
Men and women in uniform always forget life is A boomerang
they think they can play God cos they’ve got big guns
Our government claim they don’t have enough resources to help us all
but go the extra mile to fund meaningless wars
Humans have allowed their love for innovation to devour them
so much they have failed to acknowledge what they have become
People are so quick to praise loyal partners
Is Cheating acceptable and accessible now?
Politicians love  using tragedies to stay relevant
making false promises to win people over
Countries can’t fix the war on their soil
but go around bombing other countries
to steal their resources and destroy innocent lives
for their financial gain
I see you lot who embrace our black culture
but keep quiet when it comes to our struggle
You can’t choose when to be black sweetie
I don’t know why Vloggers brag about their good deeds
Don’t get me wrong, I am always moved by  your touching videos
but you shouldn’t film the vulnerable
for your views
The internet has  succeeded in painting the perfect body for its audience
that people feel they would be rejected if they don’t meet the society’s standards
We look up  so much to celebrities
because they are reflections of who we want to be
instead of using our little time for our development


Don’t get me wrong
I know and understand
©O.K
June 2020

or what should have been titled: product endorsement by vloggers with the following introduction, lost in terms of original content, that will have to be necessarily rewritten in a lessened heaving of the breast as proclaiming original ease of composition... but since this is not the first instance of such a blunder, it is actually a joy to see: to see the lack of clinginess to one particular instance, over all others - not here, not here the one-hit wonder of pop culture that's rampant... you might find this siding with the mediocre but it's due to the fact that it wasn't said many times and cannot be desirably uprooted from such a perception, and entombed in sacred marble of "forever cherished"; thus said, few writers realise that their works are like fresh fruit and vegetables... they too have their b.b.d. (best before date) and their u.b.d. (use by date) - i believe that no one alive can claim a b.b.d. for their work and still be alive... period. the u.b.d. simply states: before you, the reader, actually dies... but then again, that's a bit overly pressure laden with the writer's presumptions: nonetheless it's there... poems and books like fruits and vegetables, the writer ought to be a refrigerator, the reader the oven... i guess it just means: keep your cool, while others turn to populist hysterics if something looks counter to their norms... that's how it is, any poem's or book's b.b.d. (best before date)? when the author is dead.*

that famous saying:
an apple a day keeps
the doctor away...
i suppose there's another
one of kindred invocation:
a poem a day
keeps the psychiatrist
at bay - alter?
writing poetry is a bit like
watching a psychiatrist
try to wriggle his way
out of a straitjacket -
they're not called
the thought-police for no reason...
and my my: i thought
that was only in the Soviet Union?

David George and some call me Huggy bear.

I have been a way for a long while. I missed my home. I missed the people here.

I missed the way to talk, to blog.

I wish I had a camera. Maybe it is better that I don't. I look older now.

I have taken off for easier things , like FB. No stress, just family mostly.

As you mostly know , I have been mostly healthy and out playing sports like tennis and hockey and ***. Well not so much *** but mostly tennis.

I wake up a 10 and I have a great selection of daily activities.

Lately I have been organizing a VRR video recording room. I need to get it finished for the beginning of 2018 but it looks like it will be closer to the middle of 2018. Closet project got in the way.

I found a new friend on FB. She accepted my friend request which makes me happy. I go to her FB page and see her posts which makes me happy.

On Wednesday  we have to go to the hospital for my wife's colonoscopy but I am not looking forward to that.   I have vitalago but it does not hurt. Only when I was a child and kids would tease me about my freaky looking skin.  They would say hurtful things like. You have a skin problem, or you didn't eat your vegetables or call me "burn victim".

My wife is concerned about my drinking. She thinks I drink to much. Well she is right but I still drink to much scotch. She loves me and is concerned about me. I know I should stop and I have in the past.

My health is good and I have great friends to play tennis with.

One day I will make a great partner for my wife and make her very very happy.

Within this last 7 years I have had acid reflux and I take nexium. If I didn't drink I would not need it.

I am a true toughie medically. I believe I am one lucky man to have what I have at age 60. Some people envy me and avoid interaction. They know I have a lot of things they will never have.


I did not expect a certain person to be here. he has proven to be a liar, a someone who needs drama in the worst way. If  there is evil, I look at him that way. he has hurt many on line, off line. I wish not to have anything else to do with him, yet, I fought hard today.. maybe it was because of the losses. Dan from VH, Argent from here, Zen, and as they say it all comes in 3. My heart broke . Vloggers are a rare bunch. Some quite , some loud, and vocal , all the same vloggers , and bloggers. . They vary is sight, some no one see's . But they are spirits of site , and the ones who walk at night that none ever see's .. I came back to the people who somewhat know me. Who I have hard times with, good times , tearful times, but yet we all still exist .I was thinking that if I die, I would want to talk, tell stories, laugh, read, see the wonderful work that Frank does, and hear Lauri's rightful acts. I would like to hear jry again, and all the ladies here. The tes, the crown, the proper . I am just a wild bird, sometimes get stuck in tree's . But I live , I cry, I love and someday will die , but not yet.. I have too much to read and hear. I have loved many, and few have loved me. But yet I loved anyway. Why? because the light is brighter than. The days vetter an the tea sweet,

I am back, I hope I am welcome. I am imply happy to be back

/I can already speak of the future, in that I envision a man, of Promethean calibre, who stole the rod of Zeus, harnessed lightning, and spoke of the closure of atomic energy... and who was ******, to die from insomnia; ⠽ ⠓ ⠺ ⠓... not the fate of man desires pity... but solely the heart... that God of eunuchs and virgins... disintegrating idols and demigods... the future Promethean... who stole the rod of Zeus, harnessed lightning, and fed man a sight of the world via a telescope, sitting on a chaotic vector of the pulverising atom... a man of such gesture is bound to take to such an exhaustion... a man, a god, a son of a Titan, namely Atlas... until that time, i await death not in hope of a heaven, or the debauchery of hell... i await death, as reciprocated anticipation, for this man, to usurp the Promethean myth.  

just a song, prior to youtubers,
vloggers et al.,
I witnessed the death of a medium,
somehow revived by vinyl sales,
yet not as niche as 80s cassette craze...
disco "vinyl", compact...
now it seems sitting by two
candles in a room is an archaic
form of shamanism,
given that the old folks are
cuddled by the eerie lights...
elsewhere, the glaring neon,
and what else reminds you
of Piccadilly Circus...
**** of blue hues,
and all that scientific heap of facts
that, even when exposed,
never really allow sorting
life into an essential puzzle...
scientific facts as ******* dull
as a Belgian plateau,
or the other Belgian,  
waffle terrain just outside of
Ypres...
               holes of fallen crisp
sizzling dynamite...
            senfgaz...
             canvas of blurrs choking
and drowning screams...
   came no different the sailor
in the womb of the sea,
to the modern foetus...
at least with the latter:
  the angelic choir of Moloch...
earth the mother,
and sea, the father,
elsewhere in other tongues:
gender neutral with only
pronouns concerned?
as a Gaul...
       objects and things celestial
cannot be gender neutral...
Louis the sun, Luna the
wolf goddess breaking silence
with lonesome howl...
     elsewhere
                dissonance in
the collective subconscious
of the anglophone world...
   an attack on grammar,
apparently Jung's collective unconscious
rubric had too many
dream interpretations...
worth citation from American beauty,
about life, and balloons...
about keeping life intact,
or letting the river in...
about erecting a dam,
    hydroelectric potency...
or allowing the aquatic Rodin work
his hands like waves...
   god, or the sloth artist...
            sinister the thus exhaled sin
to be a godly virtue,
under which all monks fall prey...
   busy body, busy be(e)...
French café communists...
        Sartre while living with his mother
while having a taste for...
cross-eyed...
     9ne word leech agitation vibrates
in the English tongue:
loser... loner...
   well thank **** i'm not the celebrated
footballer going cuckoo
after years of undiagnosed concussion!
- prior to the sensationalism
of the current brigade...
   I already have a scout
akin to Dante's guide ******...
   mein schatten...
I'll wake and speak deutsch...
       dunno, kinda a fetish after
vomiting having watched *******
and *******...
notably?
      she asked me whether I'd like
to use a *****...
   so I replied: my phallus is already
a cockrel imitation of dodo...
    not as far as not knowing what
the upper tier of mouth does...
but puritanical... to say the least...
a ******* tornado whirling from
**** to *** prior to watching her Bulgarian
feeding frenzy take a shower...
I still don't know how stupid
pronoun gender neutrality is going
to happen... given that other languages,
notably the neighbouring french,
have gender ascriptive discriminatory
nouns....
         i could unerstanding neutral
plurality with the given examples...
ah'vey for a they...
                no point labouring
under a glorification of Shakespeare,
no, seriously, I'm of the Milton school...
english has become a global language,
the zeitgeist ligua franca of commerce...
but with respect to the infiltrators
subvertors, and other quasi-quack-quack
communists?
          a ******* anorexic gaspine for air!
somehow the collective unconscious
has morphed into a collective
subconscious, notably due to the fact
that grammatical cordiality has
become obliterated by a...
categorical transcendantilism...
    believe me when I say,
those who support gender neutral
pronouns....
         will never set foot,
in languages, who have been
constructed on a basis of
pro gender nouns...
     this little article C16 of Canadian
law?
          an echo chamber...
      **** me... not even that...
a cave you shout into...
        but also a cave that eats the shouting,
and doesn't burp back
with an echo!
           - because english psychiatrists
find it easier calling an entrenched
bilingual a schizophrenic...
             because the natives...
just ******* love... a caravan holiday,
near... Blockpoo'l.