.english black humour is peppered with sarcasm,
english humour is sarcasm...
watching the gaelic version
is like watchings the irish try to be subtle by being rude,
doesn’t work... normas proved it defeating the saxons...
and subsequently the celtic brides roared in encore!
it really doesn’t work... the polish fraction of me still intact
to remind me of the biology that still works served
the reminder: polish history is still orientated
on the european continent, eastern europe
is not a segregated "continent" that might contend
with england and france being ante-antarctica...
never engage a celt with british humour for guy fawkes or anyone
else in the missing ditto;
celtish or cultish... i never quiet know...
enter the celtish brides... encouraging the advent of copulation
and the excesses of tax to build linear ceramic imprints
of broken bricks, that made it into ratio of
the chiseled brick worth a heavyweight contention with
heated mortar dough; oh right, pooh bear you're offended...
deal with it! unless your uncle is denoted as
adolf ****** and you want him resurrected!
shakespeare never wrote the play: the merchant of mecca,
did he? poor shylock... i was almost caught in admiration
of what english students at 16 thought of that national pride...
known as the *****-bride to **** for an A at a-level.

they still sound out of breath,
out of anything,
esp. words...
they all sound to totem no animal
rather than an ****
which in ceramic wilderness
sounds like wild ****...
where’s the monochromatic monotone
of the drunken sailor going by the name
of st. peter?
fisherman turned sailor... that’s a first...
why didn’t jesus pick barabbas rather than judas?
was it cain that got in the way?
i bet it was. well nox awaits both thief and murderer...
those engaged with rabbanic arts
tend to treat dreams less seriously...
and those that don’t tend to treat dreams more seriously...
those that treat dreams seriously endear the sole
escapism of reality quite seriously...
and for those that don’t... well... there’s the zodiac algebra
and that’s right for a mummified expression
that was bandaged into a circumcised *******.

p.s.
rhyming poetry has spawned the most pointless
ibhibitions of rhythm poetics,
all the current poets sound
    verärgert... exasperated...
    is everyone seriously a ******* goldfish
catching their breath a second time?!
you want to know the most fun thing
i've ever did, today?
i started to tickle my maine ****'s
inner ear with a chicken's egg...
he raised his paw,
he tried to scratch himself...
"something" there was a schizophrenic
violing playing in his cranium,
rather: the temple of his ear...
i was lucky in having to: kitzteln (titillate)
him with an egg...
a chicken abortion i'd probably
consume come tomorrow's breakfast
hour...

             he felt it, the giggles...
the giggles from annoyance being rubbed
the "wrong way"...
so much to say about a woman
whom i attempted to pick a nose
in earning affection of seeing:
the "green fairy" take a ****,
take to farting, breaking the magic of
the feminine persona of "unfathomable" /
unfailable...

            genius: an egg inserted
into a cat's ear to tickle... eating an abortion
the next morn...
                                    all the woes
of the world seem so insignificant when
you buy into feline idiosyncracies...
after all... there's no leash...
no kaganiec...
             there is no stipend associated
with the timing of walkies...
cats are perfectly disorientated by
their own selves: or rather,
their senses...

              you learn atheism from people,
but?! you learn solipsism from cats!
you learn atheism to sound
intellectually superior, sound,
"sensible"...
solispsism you learn from cats...
god or no god...
you are first, you are the last,
while god? "someone" in the middle...
can god be associated to pronouns?
or is god a pure noun: excavation
machina pro grata?
well... if god was ever a person,
being, anti-tool...
wouldn't "he" be a persona non grata?!
well then!
  machina pro grata:
                the noun spin "mr."...

man was never in search of god:
the objective reality remained true as
it always remained...
man was forver bound to the search
of god: via the subjective
personification of said "object"...

      how do you think the muslims
deal with this conundrum?!
they think they are gratifying everyone
else with an objective reality
of god, while they themselves,
with the polytheistic splinter of the gods,
are themselves searching for
the subjective reality of their god...
a person, a personality...
to the muslims their god speaks
the same objective truth as the sort
of truth a pagan might adhere to...
they want to know: a person to speak to,
rather than an object they can throw...

modern poetry when performed is ****,
it all sounds the same...
that overtone of exasperation...
me? i'm not speaking...
itchy finger-tips: idle hands:
the devil's due...
      i'm not speaking among these
youths... it's like that h'american beauty
quote...

ricky fitts: but it helps me remember...
i need to remember...
sometimes there's so much beauty in the world,
i feel like i can't take it,
     and my heart is just going to cave in.

lester burnham - whatever he said
about the balloon not being filled with helium...
but with all the bureucratic custody
via custard like some zeno paradox
of a tortoise outrunning achilles...
               the beauty can remain...
to enchant the easily impressionable...
after all: you "only live once"!
the beauty will always remain...
hence the seasons...
               but there's only one
impressionable aspect of this reality...
the thought you leave with...
the thought, implying:
the lost aspect of a moral (th)ought
to be envisioned in it not being
sentenced to a maxim
    or a proverb...
                       or a lesson...
after all... once man grows old:
he's no longer fond of learning,
but overtly eager to teach...
         i'm neither... 33...
who am i to learn from or teach for?
teaching by mistakes?
       no one really teaches by example...
unless on a pure technical canvas
associated with a trade or a tool...
which life is neither!

what is the west selling as their... "capitalism"...
their next ponzi scheme of "made in... chi'nah?!"
this, this is capitalism?!
i remember days when gap shirt
lifted the words: made in canada....
quality... would last you 20 years...
the wool wouldn't thin, the colours
wouldn't fade...
                    capitalism my ***, these days!
i came to the promised land,
i remained: with broken bones
            and ****** make-up tutorials....

for all the belief in man,
and this, non-existent fear of god,
savvy,
      upon the sacred altar of
the debauchery of prometheus,
upon the sacrifices of a.i. atlas...
upon: will electricirty ever replace fire...
who stole the rod of zeus
beside promothian thief who came
back with the eternal fire of Odin?
who?!
my kindred: alas!
                     and to what end?!
to the end without any surprise...
for the cosmopolitan cul de sac:
screaming at a brick wall pretending
to talk to one one but brick!
    
  i too visited: Krzyżtopór, in the village of Ujazd,
   Iwaniska commune, Opatów County...
how... the categories congregated
with implosions to make a ground:
specific...
  what would be the categorical imperative
for the congregative consumate
orientation of said narrative?

     even my grandfather remembers
the famous debackle concerning
Alfried Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach...
i do come from a family
of metallurgy... or coal-mining...
  both as true as these coal-riddle hands
supposing ink in pixel...
  
come on... the Schwerer Gustav?
the gun of all guns?! the one with the sort
of recoil that demanded train lines
to incubate the impact?!

modern, spoken, poetry, bores, me...
it's simply exasperated...
  exasperated by rhyme,
exasperated with rhyme,
exasperated outside of rhyme...
i'm listening to clones...
i don't won't to write modern poetry,
simply because:
i will not recoil with a take
on modern poetry...
  i don't do exasperated...
as much as i adore olivia gatwood's:
manic pixie dream girl...
yes, a ref. to the garden state movie...
the shins: new slang...
yeah... i did that **** in edinburgh...
climbing the scaffold...
erected around new college...
dancing on the roof with myself at night...
watching the *****-bank fluoride
white above the firth of forth one night...

but that's what i find really evil...
you know how in the movies,
the actors and actresses brush their teeth...
but never rinse?!
instead? keep that toothpaste in their mouths?!
******* never rinse!
that's evil... i'll tell you:
brush witha  pea-sized dollop, then rinse...
all the movies you see will never show you
a person rinse their teeth after brushing...
you should look into rinsing...
and? you'll never lose weight by going
to the gym...
you'll get stretch-marks, for sure...
there are only two ways to lose weight:
bicycle or swim...
swim or bicycle... better... both!

going to the gym will not help you...
you'll need plastic surgery!
but hollywood movies are evil this way...
they portray people washing their teeth
without spitting out the excess toothpaste
and not rinsing their mouths...
with water...

            who does that?!
hollywood is the next dentistry monopoly?!
pea sized amount of paste,
at the end of the day will do,
and then please spit,
then rinse with water...
don't just do what hollywood bad teeth
brigade do...
keep that paste in your mouth
like car battery acid / fluoride!

   pea sized brush once a day,
spit, rinse... slide your tongue over
your teeth to feel the sheen of
           ivory mingling with glass.

i hate modern poetry, why is everyone pretending
to be asthamtic, exasperated, out-of-breath?
with the same punctuation "all of a sudden"?
**** if i'm going to speak,
i'm not speaking...
             not in this climate...
edinburgh 2006...
  that's when i wanted to speak...
but then my eyes stole my tongue and told me
to listen.
i've been listening every since...
and...
i haven't even registered one hearing
of an echo since then.

big bang? i just call it the: reassertion of φνς; big bang? the bing bang? scientists are creative and artists are prone to rigour? what an "unexpectedly" unoriginal definition to draft the genesis... bangs in vacuum?! that tree falling in the forest trick that only women seem to answer? i'm literally having a limp-**** moment with someone telling me: it began with a big bang! wow (łał)! amazing! you predicted a sound, excavating it from a vacuum, where, apparently, you can't hear one!

most of the time it's like dry laugh, perpetuated by a: ha ha... but then someone becomes drunk and gives the scales to further the impromptu, managing a: ha ha ha ha... ah ha ha ha ha... equivalent to: chasing a fly out of a room... catch the ****** by their *****! catch the ****** by the *****! unlike chasing a mouse... which is fun... more fun than a stampede in mecca for sure... you get to build a labyrinth... you get to catch the little ******... dangle him by its tail for a selfie... then you walk into the corridor of the apartment building you're living in... and what does the mouse do? so traumatißed by the lack of mouse-traps... what does he do? commits himself to suicide... jumps off the stairs into the abyss of paved concrete, and i'm like: i built this theme-park for you, and the best thing you can do is jump to your immediate death? is there another universe handy? i'm not quiet ready to deal with this one seriously.

that's for the intro, but try to incorporate the concept
of *polyphony in writing,
they'll think you're mad... rightly so, most people
love the concept of the paragraph,
just like they love donning eyeglasses -
and they love the linear concept, that "reveals"
a story...
                    they love that ****, give them rotten
cabbage and tomatoes and send them to
the shakespeare globe... to get a proper critique
if the theatre performance turns sour...
         grows fungii and what not.

oh i had a suitcase of verbiage with me...
      but the writing bit is really working on me
to necessitate a fathomable break from... "composition".

etymological pointers nonetheless:
    slav               and e?
   not really, not when you speak the language...
am i ethno-centric? i probably am,
you sort of have to be... comes with the package...
or the: shindig?
                               oh look... i know slang.
anyway...
                            around here i'm the only one laughing,
it's not an idiotic laugh that stresses: nothing or
nowhere...
                   it's the times supplement article:
the new narcissism (harriet walker reports)...
and i can't stop laughing...
   because it includes: taking selfies by the mona lisa
and by the gates of auschwitz...
                and then the n.p.d. complex (narcissistic
personality disoder)...
            and i can't stop laughing...
and i'm thinking: what's wrong with these people?
oh, right... the per se... (giggle)...
                           they're like su dokus you
abandon because you can't relax when solving them...
stray dogs and ****...
                      you whaa'?                  dunno.
i'm actually afraid of people that advertise missing
cats... how horrible do you have to be to
make a cat                       stray?
                             the ****'s wrong with you?
cats are counter-intuitively clingy... there's no leash
on them, and there's no walkies... but how abusive
or just dumb-boring (do you have to be)
                     to make a cat become stray / missing?

... (pending, ding-along-ah-****)...

"artists" made the mistake like philosophers...
                     they think poetry ought to be visual...
they already have the polyphony spectrum there,
the ******* rainbow... and then they think poetry
is all about imitating geometry: cohesion, rigidness...
bunch of ***** in all honesty...
                   Bach invented polyphony, we're going to
talk about it like we might talk about digression...
layering... it's also a geological term for: oh... looky looky
at this piece of sediment!
                     i don't think poets should mingle with
painters, to be honest: i wish they were an
apartheid apart...
                     poetry isn't a visual art-form... based on
the concept of the φνς (that's hebrew for:
hiding your vowels, like the romans imitated
adding stresses to letters)                           ooh! fancy!
is writing 50 years behind painting? (w. burroughs quote)...
don't know... is writing a century behind
                                     musical composition?
that's more likely than writing competing with
painters... why did poets cling to painters in the first place?
φoνoς... you're not painting a picture...
                   oh ******* o'hara, and you tenure
as regent of an art gallery: get hit and die by a beachball.

variants:
in the west the etymology of slav = +e
      well... unless you speak the tongue you can say:
                 zdrowie na budowie - buda! psie / pśιe!
there really is an etymological variant to the anglophone
understanding of stating the noun, indicative...
                but i need to bring the greek iota into the picture...
i.e. it's naked, it has no diacritical marks attached to it...
i.e. ι                      so... now...
lesson no. 1:          slav, in mother tongue   słowianiń -
iota variant?                            słowiańιn   (lazily, just słowianin)
   etymologically speaking, i.e. derived from what?
word... the slavs call it:          słowo.
   literally.
                      germanic peoples of north america can
be so obnoxious that it really does suit them...
    but who the **** would want to marry their women?
probably muslims... and breed a bunch of inbreds,
household peasant people,
                        orangutan down syndrome people;
gonna **** your granny pete?

oh right...

    lesson no. 2:
   i can't stop laughing at this grammatical transgression...
you really have to transcribe the transgender concept...
      ...
           as might have been expected: laughter can really
exhaust you... what i didn't know was:
           to the point where you are lullabied to sleep -
fully dressed - to only find yourself getting up in
the morning: pouring yourself the remains of the ***,
sticking your head out the window and seeing
spring in full swing: two sparrows getting it on...
                                       but gender neutral pronouns?
what, like it?
                                oh hey, here comes cousin it -
huh? i swear the point of pronouns, or at least
the categorical basis for a word to be a pronoun is
to stress a gender of the speaker -
                                        the argument for gender
neutral pronouns: let me put it in analogue form -
you see on the news, daesh destroying ancient
roman temples in syria...
                            world heritage sites protected
by international law... what this transgender movement
is doing to the english language? looks pretty
similar to me (in non relative terms) -
                     but it's sure as **** in being some form
of desecration... it can't be anything else...
the problem would be staggering if appropriated in
poland... where gender feeds into verbs...
                                   if this movement is an isolated
indicdent, that is,isolated in that it's an anglophone
phenomenon (thailand? well... they got into the groove
and didn't perform a real ****** on their sprechen) -
just an example of how gender is incorporated in
the western slavic language...

i.e.
         podniósł (masculine - [he] picked it up...
    the thing being picked up is not specified)

   podniosła    (feminine - [she picked it up...
      ""      "      "           "       "    "    "          ")

could have just written ditto, anyway:
                   but also notice the beautiful orthographic
transition - it's almost a ******* representation
with the acute o (ó = u, well: orthography is not
exactly grammar, but like grammar: it's an aesthetic) -
      pod-nio(h)-sla(h)            - i'm lazy, american
linguistic studies use this form of notation -
                    evidently i'm expecting some puritan who
actually studies phonetic encoding to come up to
me and tell me: no no... it's like so:
                the point is, a transgender movement could
never pick up in the western slavic language:
     well, because a gender specified pronoun
permeates to other words that aren't in the pronoun
category... i.e. as the above - verb category -
                        obviously the above two example are
what they are in terms of gender, but they're
also a past participle attached to them... past tense -
but we are talking about pronouns, aren't we?
   so that has to be incorporated into the example -
evidently a *****-nilly pure verb of the above two is
gender neutral, but it has nothing to do with pronouns.
- like i already said once before:
                compared with german? english is shrapnel.

1.
there once was a poem
who climbed into a paper boat
             and sailed on to the moon
             not a moment too soon
for they came to lock the sun away!

2.
best not mount this whippy one
rock-a-billy wild carriage
              ride me to the city's end
              don't drive me round the bend
we can always try a bold bovary-move!

3.
look into the fire and sing a song
about the lonely, tarrying sea
               oh sailor, make it sweet
               then I'll put it up on tweet
and nary mind; make your children's lullaby.

4.
I gives ya posies bright and gay
come sit by me...closer, dear
                she smells, then sneezes
                oh, he didn't know how to please her
her floral allergies packed him off for good.

5.
there was a lazy man from Shadder
who said 'twas too cold to empty his bladder
                  so, he sent it a-walkies
                  off alone to the loo
well, it just drove his wife madder!



S T, 30 June 2013

My friend, its been a while
since you took my mind on a leash and went for walk.
I  hear it bark at you
and I would ask it to stop if i could view its sight

You'll never have known a love so true
than the love of a dog when he loves you
The wag of his tail that wags just for you regardless if your happy or blue
He'll greet you every morning and stick to you like glue
He'll follow you around as though you are brand new
He'll never tire or get bored of his lot
For in his mind he'***** the jackpot
Cuddles on the sofa or walkies in the park
Curled up by the fire after a scrub in the bath
He doesn't care for material gain
He'll forgive you quick and he'll ease your pain
He'll look at you with love
best mates you'll forever remain
If he sleeps on his back with his legs sprawled in the air
You know he feels safe and loves his place
He doesn't feel vulnerable or insecure with you
He knows you're always there picking up his poo
He may be cheeky and he may be rude
But when it comes to the important stuff he's the coolest dude

imagination: the crucible of inanimate things getting the modern physics makeover of dynamism in quanta of crosswords and dalmatian; imagination: **** static without the fizz of carbon edging to oxygen in the nightclub; imagination, when you assume unmovable things can be moved not disgruntled by not seeing the image of such feats formalised for applause and a nobel on the clean sheen buttering the scalp; oh yeah, what else? ah! me shampoo steve on the maiden to scrap lanky, me talk aboriginal, continent to continent, me talk each cult dialect of tribe without chief, me smoke tobacco with glee, but back home, i'm like the aboriginal: i say socrates is pop, they say kerry katona is popper, i might as well be among the **** naked cannibal lepers eating themselves to the salt shake of maracas - mmm, extra flaky; chisel those fried pouts into ducky of chalky lipstick: originating without mirror but a stick; but to be honest? the celebrity culture was a way to cut off the famous from 2000+ years ago; well, that was the original idea.*

i wanted to correlate the fascination from astrology
into phonetics, i chose the oak tree split to be the y,
i chose the sun to be o
and the moon to be c,
but i lost the constellatory plot from there;
so a beer and cigarette on a sunny day:
england owns september if you want me to compare
it to a zodiac; england owns september.
then i dipped into a canto dry lipped,
ushering people in:
man will be more heartbroken losing
his dog to a stranger than a woman,
with animals there's no free will involved you see,
pat on the head to the count of two
and i was leeched to 5am walkies,
but then i dropped the finished can, stumped the cigarette but
and opened the book, hiroshima sunrise
of bleach white pages in the sunlight,
shadow those twenty-six digits in for the eyes to see.
i want literature, i don't want oration,
not the kind of politics of arson with pre-pepper sneezes
of applause on the cue, life, the automation of queues,
i want spontaneity and the outer reaches to shake
a banana into a pistol in a magic trick,
with the bunny turning into a rabbit-hare mongrel,
or a ******* left *** wiggle for the photoshop, you choose.
so i said: but i want literature, i want to read
books so complex that i can't incorporate them into
my cognitive narrative, and i can't even speak about them,
i want books like that, books that will
not allow me to speak about them, or join a book club,
or become a critic for a newspaper when the **** is hot,
i want... literature... pure and simple...
i don't want tea break talk folding a ******* into jam and cheese
benevolently housebound to smear cat **** on walls and simply
call it diluted beige.

You are my best friend.
Loving, loyal and true.
Loving unconditionally,
I appreciate all that is you.

Sometimes you drive me mad,
When you disagree with me.
I want what's best for us.
My way to show I care, you see.

Everyday is much the same,
We both know the routine.
It starts with breakfast,
A time to share my dreams.

You recognise my moods
and listen to me intently.
You understand my feelings.
I feel your empathy.

Then off to work,
You watch me from the door.
With heavy heart I leave you.
Soon, I'll be with you once more.

The happiness you bring me.
Your welcome when I come home.
The guilt I feel,
Having left you all alone.

Your hugs are special
comforting and warm.
These moments, though infrequent
Make me keep you out of harm.

So now you wag your tail.
It's reached that time of day.
I'll get your ball and lead.
Walkies, let's go out to play.

oi! Bronson! **** ya matey! i'm a sardine oiled up! that paddy is gonna hang like a dog on a serpentine of a leash's worth of walkies... that paddy's gonna hang and ask for the relay gun at the Olympics going off... paddy was never the bricklayer... paddy always gangrene flex, got lucky in Arizona and New York, forked St. Petersburg and only forked a steak nibble... Bronson settled into retirement just fine, came out a ******* act-tor! pepper the bobby with parking meter fines for his bureaucratic funfair study... sooner or later Jimmy the literate will turn up, and replace Bob the illiterate swine cuffing someone ******* in an alley.*

oh, i'd probably become
an english teacher
and sing ****-yeah
when the drone army of
Amazon couriers fed us
the next 21 hour trip in
defence against the Koran...
so i guess ha ha is in order.

and with every mythical Mrs.,
you tell 'em about the castration
in the synagogue, and never about the
baritone in the morgue.

my father yearns to aid those too eager and audacious
to match-up and meet me:
be kneeling and weeping before my presence,
imagine seeing a father kneel and weep
before his son... what armageddons would arise!
no friend or foe is distinguished in my father's words
for the implant of said: you think yourself the messiah?!
i think i'm not worth a dust throw into crass of your words
extended; but a son who has seen his own father weep
and kneel before his eyes, of such son is there a relation
among other men who still wrench the salt from jesus' maxim
about ending the relation between father and son with a sword?!
elsewhere a father constructed a cellar to hide his son
and ensure honour protect him as honour not entrusted with heart
but a prosthetic ***** of shame: the pyramid;
my alms of grief are not with you, father, but with the world,
for this world made you kneel and weep while i stood upright
and had none of your uprightness to consolidate old age with retirement economics.*

before nero there would have been no magi v. saint,
had appropriate measure gestures solidified the handshake,
but while the babylonians had the humbled king
the egyptians had the arrogant pharaoh; i mean, jesus could
have been an arch-magi - he wasn't, he was an aztecan discovery
by the conquistadors; the lamb the ***** the anti-semite blueprint
of vocabulary; while those caring for post-colonialism
eagerly sentenced man to rifts in nouns,
man revoked such culminations asking
for a pardon with words: i, citizen of the
free democracies of the western world
unlearn my vocabulary in order to stitch up to
middle class belief of where evil is sensationalised
good is anonymously serialised in the tropic of forgetfulness
reminiscent of a blue moon only,
i'll see it as: good and evil i'll oink you know,
there's no danish kindergarden thinker in me
to choose a rubric of grammar from a rubric of arithmetic;
i will not be dictated safeguards of class
between censoring the oath word **** and the pleasantry
of self-imposed censorship of a god's name;
because i care for i.q. censoring the tetragrammaton
rather than censoring the oath word ****
for some genital mutilation in **** lacklustre longshank walkies
as tango does me bitterer for a laugh:
sounds like? oh we can't allow people seeing *******
but we can allow the peeps an **** or two oiled up
gargantuan breast-sized fitted ******
suffocating a *****: logic unto hell,
we see many a young man dried up told to imagine more
with a sound than imagine less with the image
and the unspoken -
and in either case, the sound is curbed for reasons qualifying
en masse insanity.

Today is something new,
Leading me,
The gravel digging in.

The smells gets stronger,
My heart pounds,
Wincing at each tug.

Pulling me away from the lifeless body,
I need to know,
Please let me look.

I pull against my bonds,
Gagging and wheezing,
The need to know is overwhelming.

You grip my collar,
Lift me up off my feet,
Carrying me away, cursing.

Today was new,
You lead me and then scolded,
I wish you didn't say walkies.

i could very well be a halfwit *** -
all white: piglet pink / orange of Essex -
by starking contrast -
but i do spend $60.00 on a book
by someone called Heidegger:
oddly enough: i rattled
the mid-life crisis early...
obviously it's hardly a splash-out on
something quite comforting like a yacht:
but still, bricks come cheaper
than books:
         you ain't gonna
bother     so i might as well ****, oh sorry,
rap my way through the sedimentary
otherwise clowned as the rudimentary
blasé.
       i really do solve sudokus drunk:
a higher preference than beating a woman
or starting an argument,
like                            today,
a white *** ****** arguing about beer:
drunk like a skunk, happy to-fro
black ***** saying: if i had my mobile out
the police would be here in a minute:
black lives really do, matter.
          she say shye man's drunk:
****-smear on his trousers, maybe this is
how you mourn someone dying: getting ******* -
but obviously with citizens on patrol over
'ere, that doesn't matter.
           she defends the cashier kid, the drunk whitey
gets the Gertrude Stein treatment:
otherwise known as
      the cold shoulder -
                                 i don't know what to make
of the whole debacle -
not even with a poem or painting will you make
a squiggly-clean citizen that'll do small-talk with
you and rein in a sunrise worthy of a *******
postcard...
              i was promised £8 by a Tesco cashier
for a book i've written, what did i
   get? diddly-squat.
          so back to square 1, drink one night,
don't drink another night -
and back to: just because you're woollen and
middle-classed and squeaky clean doesn't
mean you're interesting, actually:
you sanity is so ******* boring i'd rather eat
with pigs, and drink myself dead-serious comatose
with a bunch of other assorted hogs.
truth is so ****** obvious, no wonder it's painful.
so i decided to spark 3 chances of beer after
seeing the debate with the Sri Lankans -
with temperatures nearly freezing after wholesome miles
undergone: i sat in a darkened world war i memorial,
then walked through
  a leafy part of a would-be graveyard -
                 and almost everything felt eerie -
like i was son of sam writing from prison -
                  a self-guide manual or something.
then writing this i became agitated by some s o r t
of c o m p u t e r: v i r u s -
                     y o u, t h i n k  i would be operatic
paranoid having invoked such scenes of the night
with one or two Essex foxes foraging household waste?
     it's a variation of the typical Trojan in f e c
        t i o n:
            i.e. to make human langu     a g e
                      keyboard: rather than alphabetical -
the prin ciple is the same: why not
a e i o u b c d f g h j k l m n p q r s t v w x y z
(mathematics last)?
           i could very well be a paranoiac -
but in a Salvador Dali linguo -
            b u t    l e                       t's
face it: this is fresh, this is new, and we are naive
in our use and development of it -
               we have thrown so much of ourselves out
into the world that the world will not necessarily
throw our self back into us:
mind you, some of us are protesting at our
job losses versus the Chinese -
          we want those jobs back: we ain't getting them
back!
                well hello! what's your name?
feminism.                    hello feminism! what do you do?
we are the people behind solely software ergonomics -
all our hardware antics have been exported to
Ching Chang Wu: or Yin in Yiddish,
                                 and Yang in Walla Walla.
it ain't coming back - replica wall versus
Mexico? (Juan         Yoddle ****     Jack and yack
                 happening and         Xavier?
     exercise and ha ha ha? same ****, different cover.)
slamdunk that **** like it was Deep Purple
when in fact it was Blackmore's Night -
hey! me too! i used to work a nightclub so i could
buy a mandolin and do the Rockefella round the clock
jingle to boot too:
                         got harassed by some gay guy while
cleaning the
         toilets where people ****** into  
emptied beer bottles, rather than into the actual toilets -
so yeah: big up the latex rainbow parade!
   any gimps needing their midnight walkies?

Wow it’s snow
Out through the door at 6 am
Walkies time and off we go
Only to meet a mini blizzard

The little white flakes
Blew in my face
So so cold they were not fakes
It’s April for goodness sake

I know the forecast said it would
I didn’t quite believe
Now I know I should
The snow came down

Bit it didn’t stick!!!!!!

Taking my dog for a walk
the highlight of my day
He barks while I always talk
we have so much to say

Twenty minutes of fresh air
we like to let it out
We cuss and curse and loudly swear
and at our problems shout

That's when we *** on all the trees
and our day wounds lick
and hope tomorrow is a breeze
while I go fetch a stick

It's half past twelve.
You look up at me like an innocent child.
Doleful like you'd just been scolded.
You had, I just told you off.
Big eyes looking up at me.
You tickled me with your tongue.
Accidentally caught me with your tooth.
Maybe it was delivered deliberately.
A subtle hint to go out with you.
I say "walkies," you jump up like a loony.
Your hint worked perfectly.
(c)Livvi

I'm running in circles chasing my tail
I will catch it one day, I know, some how
if I lay quietly and very still
it may try to slip off to eat my meal

So I watch it as it moves to and fro
can't wait too long for I have to go
my master is calling walkies
the jingling of the lead will get to me

Now my tail is taunting me, waving
it's is saying goodbye soo indignantly
but yet I know when I go out
that little *** will follow me


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris


By NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

What's on my mind! This much I know...
I've got a skull that won't let go...
And so my brain stays in the dark,
It gets no walkies in the park...
It throbs with blood the live-long day,
The blood flows in then goes away...
Thus oxygen keeps it alive
A few more moments to survive...
No matter if I sleep or wake,
It's always there, for goodness sake...
I get a headache now and then,
It's no good counting up to ten...
I take a pill to calm things down
And melt away each care and frown...
While thoughts bounce left and thoughts bounce right,
Till brainwaves help this guy look bright...
And then my little heart feels glad
Rejoicing I'm no longer sad...
Until I'm forced to fall asleep,
To go to bed and breathe in deep...
And then my mind starts playing tricks,
With every random dream it picks...
What's on my mind! This much I know...
I've got a skull that won't let go!

Denis Martindale March 2018.

come the end of the year, i finally feel fatigued, a complete burn out, all the excess of calorie intake from whiskey doesn't help, not even caffeine / nicotine boosters help, i'm usually so invigorated by winter, come to think of it: winter always invigorates me: so much that's the cold so much concerning the hibernating insects... ah... yet another thought... i wish i could love a girl like a teenage boy might love a girl... nuanced... androgynous, i remember quiet clearly, i used to don long hair, clean shaven... we were in Valentine's Park once, kissing on the grass, a dozen colts walked past and joyfully screamed: lesbians! lesbians! we had our giggle... in South Park we clashed teeth when kissing, we kissed so much that our lips became numb, another time in South Park she pulled out my phallus and rubbed it admiring its size... me... i thought it was tiny... big hands, can hold a basketball in one hand, could hold one in one hand since i was 16... i wish i could love like that, innocently, naively, whole-heartedly, romantically: with a heart as soft as an oyster... now... i wake up with a hardened skull... i can feel another oyster... my brain trying to escape this body, pulverising my forehead... i sometimes feel a sharp pang in my chest... i think that's where that old labyrinth of feelings use to be... now... it's merely a sinking sensation, a thrill no less, but hardly any reason to explore attachment... to a place? sure... to an animal: all the more... but... to give up the thrill of reality to being bound to a woman?! to give up, my passion for music, hell... even share it?! i'm growing old, at 35 i know i'm still in my prime, but i'm looking much further ahead, i'm preparing myself for... at worst, "worst"... a sacrificial suicide, at best the Dutch approach of marrying death via euthanasia... or... not yet, not, just yet... but i wish i could love as i once loved, so naively so child-like, mind you: i can still **** women like i used to love them in that pageant of innocence... but... beyond that? i'm sorry... that boy left... this man is not here for some mediocre soap opera novella of a love... above-point to consider... why are cats getting all the nagging, cat-lady associates etc. cult of the cat?! eh?! what about william burrough's love of cats? only women own these: bonsai tigers?! why do i have to own a dog... dogs are great when you're a boy... since usually you run around with them, freely, care-free, climb trees while they bark with concern: you're too high up! dogs are great when you're a child, a boy, someone older usually takes care of them, you just run around with them... but as you age... ****'s sake... a dog requires a leash, a dog requires a systematic: walking to take a ****... routine... sometimes even a muzzle... almost constant attention... bonsai tigers on the other hand?! what's with this ******* cat-lady meme... where's the warlock from Warsaw meme? no leash, i can ******* and do my thing, the cat can ******* and do its thing, we sometimes meet up when eating, they usually eat when i eat... the toilet? they do it secretly, or... when they really have to: in the cuvet... i wipe my own ***: why wouldn't i scoop up a doughnut of **** of pseudo-sand?! point being... no ******* walkies... no leash... i can ignore a cat... it can ignore me... if it really wants attention: i'll gladly give it, but it has to ask for it, i'm not going to simply: give it some unncessary excess!

it began with... four letters... very much unlike
the Hebrew letters of their deity...
it began with... ∇ (del): an explosion of Y...
it began with delta: Δ...
therefore it must have begun
with the keyhole and the key being turned:
the iota bound to
Θ & to Φ...
           we'll end it there... although
we could consider... Ψ (psi) -
there's an iota in that too...
but i'm looking for the Greek equivalent
of the Hebrew tetragrammaton...
why ignore the psi? the psychology emblem /
totem... the back & forth of the tetragrammaton
"we're" looking for a name of the anti-God...
starting from YHWH...
we have the fist letter...
∇Δ: del or delta... st. peter being crucified upside
down... hey-zeus hanging upright...
the combination carves: the star of David...
it doesn't matter... in terms of how
Greek letter operate, since: the letters are also
nouns that are used in science as constants...
it makes no difference where the cut-off point
comes... we'll still get a D at the end of
d-el / d-elta... but El... is a real word in
qabbalah... in the Sefirot...
wait a a while... i'll take a sip of some whiskey
while i write down the schematic of
the tree of knowledge... bear with me...

                               keter (cown)

binah                                                 chokhmah
  (understanding)                                   (wisdom)

gevurah                                              chesed
(strength)                                               (love)  EL

                                 tiferet
                                  (beauty)
hod                                                      netzach
(splendour)                                          (victory)
                                  yesod
                                  (foundation)

                                  malkhut
                                  (kingship)

surd H, vowel-catcher H of the tetragrammaton
in all the vowels: throughout...
not the prime, vowel-spawner of
laughter present...

obviously i can't simply use H: that's a vowel in
Greek... the shorter variation of epsilon...
name... H(η) eta...
sure, in the Latin script that's...
the genesis of laughter, the Hebrew definite
article... thank god we laugh via ha ha
and not by any other syllable combination...
that would be... simply... weird...
the first "hatch" of the tetragrammaton is
source of laughter... the second "hatch", H,
of the tetragrammaton is...
in English... a source of silence, of meditation...
sometimes... the H behaves as a surd...
usually an apostrophe replaces the H...
that's as close as the English folk come to
diacritical indicators...
    'atch... 'ate... they're not as bad as the French
with their letter-eating / phonetic cannibalism:
but they're up there...
e.g. is ****- offensive? did i say
Iraqi-*******-STANI?! you, ****?!
it's just lazy speech...

  *******, read the Quran or something...
sound offends you... good! you should start
listening to people talking with a lisp...
the missing trill of the R offends me,
good & proper...
who told people a trilled-R is somehow...
unfashionable, or whatever was "wong"
with a trill of the R? rolling a ******* stone
up a hill, the myth of Sisyphus?

but i have a replacement for the H...
the laughter based H: hatchet + a-lpha...
i also have the surd H... like...
the gamma in GNOME is a surd...
you could... write that word the following way:
'NOME... why bother including the gamma
in a word that... doesn't use it?!
English isn't difficult... it's just *******
pedantic... write one way, speak another...
not exactly evolved... sort of lost between
****** speak and Japanese katakana...

a sort of an ugly merging of tongues...

****'s sake... i studied chemistry at university
to end up... suckling up to...
something resembling a resurrection
of alchemy, a romanticism associated with
the science of chemistry that can only
be translated into... a new kind of wording...
Na: sodium... because... Na is not merely:
n'ah... it's NATRON...
Fe: iron... because... it's not f'eh: it's ferrum...

so beside the instigator crux of laughter...
the surd machinery... the second H of
the tetragrammaton is also a:
vowel-catcher... at first you laugh...
then you... ah... sigh...

how hard it is... to give birth... to an antithesis
of a God... esp. if... the supposed God
is a linguistic parallel... originating in the Hebrew tongue...
being part Greek... part... instigated by
the Latin script...
i need to see the antithesis lettering... prior...

i already conjured up a missing link in the
Greek pantheon... namely?
the god behind: the phenomenon of solipsism...
Solipsus...
that placebo affair: thought experiment...
with real life implications surrounding
autism...

clearly i'm becoming a burn-out...
excessive drinking, writing almost every night...
once i could get away with scribbling
this down in one nightly session...
now it takes two nights...
two drinking sessions...
i just invested 50quid's worth of *****
for the seasonal "celebrations"...

fatigue hits me like a **** tonne of bricks...
i start caving...
better me cycling for 40 miles
than... standing, stewarding a football match...
meeting & greeting the public...
creative fatigue... this sponge of  brain is
a Brian and somehow:
Brian is "missing"..
i'm spent... maximum effort: minimal results...
well... at least as a poet one
shouldn't concern himself with cancel culture
that's affecting comedians...
i hate those monologue *******...
esp. that Carr guy...
it's funny... but it's also irritating:
makes me nervous, half-baked nervous...
just ill...
so, i just ignore him...
i try... but then popular culture
keeps pressing the wrong sort of buttons...
hey presto...
that face, i'd love to punch...
for tax-evasion schemes...
maybe that's why i feel like...
itchy-knuckles... those pursed lips...
some people just have a physiognomy
you want to either: slap or punch...
can i do both?
i feel like doing both...
no offence: joke... ha ha...
am i the only one laughing?

     i've been having problems with digestion
of late... apparently i've become intolerant
to milk... will i be drinking this almond ****
for much longer... the usual stuff gives me the *****...
does it require it being doubly filtered?!
do i need to drink goats' milk
to ease eating a marzipan cookie, & dough?
please tell me, oh "lord":  i can't be away
from not driinking milk: straight out
from the profanity of life's secondary "mother"...

digressing... no more cow milk foir you...
great... if i were a Hindu...
i can eat, beef, now?! no?!
the mother load of measures conscripting me
to not eat beef... has... fizzled out...
cow milk gives me constipation &
diarrhoea...
ergo? beef's on the menu, boys!
goat though... almond... tried oats?!
i need... milk!
cheese and ******* yogurt will not
cut it for me...
goat then... can't drink beef juice...
eat beef... or... wait a little...
perhaps the juice hasn't been
double pasteurized... doubly filtered...
i, never, quiet: essentially...
expected this...

now for the red-blooded meat!
bring it!
if the cow won't give up her milk...
for my digestion...
she best give up her red...
fission of blood... fleshy discards...
scaphism...
truly: eating sometimes... somehow
becomes a torture...
as Socrates is cited to have said:
some... live to eat...
while others... eat: to live...
i do enjoy the spices...
i do enjoy the... smoked salmon
with lemon juice & a creamy cheese...
the bagel! rounded... glutton...
like a *******'s buttocks rounded up
to metaphor a peach! ha!
or the raw herring in a
creamy sauce aligned with a dill sauce...
my preferences...
not yours...

- i hate my mother, then again: i love my mother,
my fatheer ws abandoned by his,
his father...
she's currently doing my father's nails...
i showed her a Botticelli's Venus & Mars...
the one were Venus is an amputee...
the leg dynamic...
i thought it was funny... my mother thought i was drunk...
i am drunk...
come on though... can't get a joke?!
sober people... blah...
about as interesting as Brussels Sprouts...
boring rigorous little busy-bodies...

oh... right... that inverted tetragrammaton...
here:

∇ΘMΦ...

   now, your choice of vowels to impregnate
the consonants,
the Hebrews hide them like some Europeans
hide the H... via the diacritical method
of the stupendous orthography...
Charles Dickens might have cited "orthography":
i.e. a spelling mistake...
you get orthography, when you apply
diacritical distinctions... otherwise just some
"flavoursome fancy"...

niqqud:  which implies...
kametz / patach (a ****** way of saying Ah or... Ą)
tzere / segol (again, the ****** way
of saying Eh or... Ę)
sheva - well, that's not ******...
that's Ing-Leash with the apostrophe ':
akin to 'nome... some "g" or other...
cholem - that's for O(micron)
chirek - why i, i y i not j(aded),
kibbutz & shurek - upsilon for the Greek
while an acute cholem for the ******... ó)

an appellation on behalf of the Hebrews from
a Latin man inquiring about the original
investment of the Greeks in
crafting the New Testament...

can you please... come up with an "Exodus" book,
or thereby equivalent to match up to the
"Genesis": new, thus stated...
thank you for the stated genealogy "study"...
you think you're ready? has Rome died?
has the Roman alphabet imploded,
died, like Cunieform?!
i thought the Hebrew diety either:
ate up foreign dieties and made them demons
(odd show, Beelzebub)
or... smashed the phonetic encoding systems
of other people...
so, i ask... why am i still typing in Roman?!

****'s sake, i can still give you the basics of
how the coliseum was constructed...
they constructed it using VI + IV = X!

hasn't the greatest Exodus happened,
after 2000 years... Israel was returned...
lazy ***, ****'s sake... camel jockeys!
no one is going to write about your trials
and tribulations for future generations
to understand?!
how the Hebrews returned to their homeland...
almost, lazily,
do i need to spur one ******* on
to conclude the New Testament without
managing to haggle the book of the Apocalypse?!

whales that beach themselves...
what... they'll spontaneously turn into
monkeys?!
sure... they're mammals... but it's not like
they'll spontaneously grow the sort of limps
that'll enable them to climb trees!
suicide among men makes so much more sense
when whales perform the act (of suicide)...
i'm on board...
it's not even pathetic, it's just... ******* weird...
i too don't feel inclined to belong...
we can all be jokes: ha ha... banter blah
a few minutes longer... but truth be told...
this sort of ******* has a life-span that:
i'm not too sure whether i want:
to see-through fully, to a conclusion...

best be on my bicycle and block out the world;
the world can burn...
hey... if you want... i'll even involve myself
by giving the burning some ******* jazz-hand /
applause...
because these are the times...
a comedian is self-conscious of comedy
via CANCEL CULTURE...
the poet... they ignored you, they ******* on you,
they already cancelled you...
right... so, now what? i'm supposed to stand
up?! defend comedy?!
oh believe me... this is the greatest gag around!

you didn't defend the poet...
i don't think there's a need to defend "your"
sort of sorry state of "comedy"..
must have been a very bad joke to begin with...
it's the ideal returns policy:
i give out as much love as the love that was given
to me... seems fair, seems...
equilibrated, n'est ce pas?!

Huh our mistress has left us again she must have went to work.. after she tethered us at Grandad’s gate and driven off in beserk.. but what’s that on old Pops face.. he’s smiling with a smirk..Wowee nice one Grandpa as he hands us a doggy ****

Ooh I love those tastey treats that he gives us every day.. he really is most generous as the pair of us do play..until we hear our leads rattle and of course we are on our way.. walkies with old Grandpapa down the dene’ and along the bray

“Darcey is my sister and the two of us are chums.. she is following the farmyard ducks devouring their crumbs..as Mother duck is quacking at her with such harrasing hums and her fourteen doddery ducklings keep close to their mums

Our mistresses Mother doesn’t like us in the house.. tho we wouldn’t bark..we’d be as quiet as a mouse.. but she loves to see us just like her old spouse.. Eeeh it’s a dog’s life though we really shouldn’t grouse...

THE MOST BORING OF MIRACLES

No. I don't
know

how it all
came about

that I could understand
cat or dog  - or bird even.

Or that all of a sudden they
could understand me.

It was the most
boring of miracles.

All the cat ever said was:
"FOOD! NOW!"

Or - "GET OUT OF MY FACE
HUMAN....WHO'S MASTER HERE!"

Or - "I WANT TO GO OUT!
I WANT TO COME IN AGAIN!"

Or - "IWANTTOGOOUTCOMEINGOOUT
COMEINGOOUTCOMEINetc.,etc., etc!"

All the dog would say was:
"OH BOY - CAT!"

Or  - "WALKIES!"
Or - "NEED ***...NEED TO ***!"

The birds all yelled:
"MmmmmmWORMS!"

Or "OH MY
BLUE SKY!"

Or sing ABBA songs
all day long.

Somehow I thought it
would have been so

much better than this
but - no!

That we would all be
best buddies or discuss

say Joyce or Tolsty
or Dostoevsky even.

So that I stopped
talking to them

and them
to me.

Reverting back to
who we were before.

And it was now all
miaow and woof and stuff.

All except the birds
who kept on singing - ABBA

My Moose

You make my heart miss a beat
Your soft coat I stroke, cos so sweet
You worry me when you don’t eat
You turn your head when I speak
When I say walkies you’re on your feet
My love for you is so Complete
When it’s hot you feel the Heat
Visitors come you greet and Meet
Everyone thinks you’re so Neat
You cuddle up upon the Seat
And I just love to give you a Treat!

I love the way you look at me
And the way you snug up to me
You are so special to me
Especially when you cuddle me

I love the way you wimpier
When you have a dream
And your little legs are moving
When you’re fast asleep

And when you jump up
When I leave the room
And when I’m trying to brush up
You run off with my broom

I love the way you listen to me
Your head goes side to side
And when I say walkies
You’re ready by my side

Early morning rise
Can hardly open my eyes
The eyelids are heavy
The body is unwilling
Just want to turn over
Don't want any bother
But she's there
Tapping my knee
Mummy," lets go walkies!"
is her ultimate plea!
Up I get and out we go
I wonder why
I'm tired you know!
But there's a silver lining here
Its so quiet and calm
And the field is quite near
So she's now happy
And I'm in good cheer!

Ce n'est pas possible, de
filer comme les Anglais,
or take French leave, when
one is housesitting canines.

As days of departure near,
they begin to detect a vibe;
routines change, boxes are
filled and items disappear.

They identify tones; velcro,
buckles and dome fasteners
mean walkies, but zip sounds
longer than flies, are suitcases.