People are disgusting,
They'll hurt you in
meanest possible ways.
They'll misunderstand you,
judge you!

People are disgusting,
Don't talk to them much,
Just keep it in optimum touch.
They'll treat you like a ****,
If they make a mistake it's no Biggie,
If you commit then it's a major felony.

I choose Netflix instead,
It does Judge my interest,
Shows me the best watchable result,
Better are the characters and stories
Than fake people and their hollow lies,

I choose Netflix
for my 'Me' time,
To avoid fake friends and their self centered
conversation,
Except these characters and stories ain't real like people,
To wipe my tears and hug me when em alone,
But
They ain't gonna hurt me either.

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

Maverick ex-cop (Green Beret /Navy Seal /SAS/Ranger)
Twiddle of the fingers to crack a 64 bit hexadecimal code
Shot but can still beat up bad people and run
15 people firing automatic weapons and they all miss
Database that searches the planets population in 2 seconds
And has photos of their children and plans of their building
Regardless of the crime scene sample, always a rare element that pinpoints location
Car chase where a truck can keep up with a Ducati motorbike
Organisations that only employ attractive people in lead roles
Ugly people are tech specialists sometimes allowed to be ‘quirky’
Even the uglies are attractive people disguised with glasses and bad hairstyles
‘I dream of genie’ gendre were they flirt but never get it on, unless it’s a hospital series
Watchable, funny programs that always succumb to sloppy sentimentality
High schools complete with intolerance, marginalisation, bullying, and hell on earth,
The most disturbing and darkest crime sent to titillate mid evening family viewing
Endless humiliation for fatties, chefs, performers, builders, restaurateurs, and troubled teens
Dysfunctional law enforcement agencies that never work together under any circumstances
Enough, if we need this thick coating of unreality, perhaps its time to switch off?

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It eats at me, this singular question. It repeats in my head, over and over—how can I desire what I already possess? I look at the books on my shelf and the coffee table, and I want to love them completely. I want to never buy another book. I look at the TV, a moderately sized HD set already obsolete, but what a fantastic machine it is, and though I've owned it for years, can I desire it? Or do I want something larger, something 4K? I'm trying to desire the objects I own, so when the day comes, when my singularity comes to an end, and I'm waiting for Her to come home, I will be lovesick, anxious, feverish, pure in my desire.

I've been in relationships and fantasized about one-off affairs. I've had one-off affairs and fantasized about something whole, something reliable.

This TV is watchable and this book is readable.

I think a woman is inherently better at desiring what's in her possession. She gives life, she creates, she's given to infrastructure, and future-building. A man destroys. A man conquers. A man stands in the corner of a room with a drink in his hand and recounts his destructions and conquests. You're a woman. Can you tell me how it's done?

I don't want you, I say
as I stare longingly at my screen for
a message to appear with a certain name
that does things to me.

I don't want you, I say
as the tips of my fingers tingle
and my heart becomes a drum,
the soundtrack to your entrance,
to the live wire my body becomes.

I don't want you, I say
as I surpress a cry
when your watchable lips mutter a bye
and I feel empty without a presence
of something I can't get myself to say,
is a pleasance

I don't want you, no, not at all
Not only because I can't admit it
(Too proud and afraid to say another person makes me whole
That I become needy without control)
But because that it's not true
I don't want you -
I need you, and
Owning you is all I think
I'm able to do

How many days until tomorrow
(& do not bolster me—I know the day is long)
because tomorrow I promised something
to myself, a sort of present for the hard work
of not repeatedly ramming my skull into a pack of
venture capitalists & I'm pretty sure I could take
the Koch brothers in a fight even though I am the minority &
Fox News killed racism just as MSNBC killed watchable TV &
all of this is so incredibly unimportant because
I saw the sun born of yesterday's ashes
the rebirth of light as so many slept & dreamed
but I do not dream, no, I do not wander so far away.
I think I hold my world closer than that.

I want to see the rebirth
Of the poetry in everything
That made me dust and shadow,
That absorbed the glow
Into a processed good
To be used as per convenience.

I want to see the light
Hidden in every despair,
The day we end struggling
For we just see no reason anymore.

All the prophecies failed,
The stars are useless,
The books, blank,
We can only count
On our 50 years (or less) left.

Fate gave up picking chances
And we must star the play.
I see that light.
I see the light bright burning my forehead,
Watching me and making me watchable,
The light of the stage
That covers the sight of the audience.

I want to read the full script
Where we reach the turning point,
The plot twist to a different end,
The story where lessons are learned,
The story where memories are clear.
It is not a matter of hope
But of evolution, survival.

With so much in our hands
We can't choose what we want
But we keep on grabbing
With the fear of being naked again,
A cave man with nowhere to go,
The fear of being powerless
Even though we give power away.

We can only have so much
When we have nothing instead.
The art of losing isn't hard to master
Said a poet once.
It is.

Unless we have no choice.

i grew up around the time when you'd still
want to watch movies...
that's not to say that Knives Out is a bad
movie... certainly not as quirky as
the Royal Tenenbaums...
it's actually watchable...
i get it... there are only a few actors
out there where their voices come prior
to their faces...
Gene Hackman... Jeremy Irons...
Jack Nicholson...
Cary Grant...Cate Blanchett... some other
notable mentions...
but i found out that: that i just don't have
the attention span to watch a movie...
i can barely make it through
an entire football match... but a movie?!
it's not like i've been hiding
a problem with a.d.h.d. -
3 hours cycling: i can digest... conquering
my mind: ****** it with my body
the route: in reverse: from Collier Row...
to Chigwell... Loughton... Buckhurst Hill...
shyly toward Wanstead and onto the straight
via teasing Manor Park...
Epping Forest is overrated... it's a swamp...
no sequoias...
i can concentrate on a book...
i'm still trying to resurrect my grandfather
to keep his dementia sacred
in repeating the same stories...
while i'd wake up at 5am in winter
and read a book...
why i still haven't read Rousseau is beyond
me...
seems i wasted reading on
Kierkegaard... or someone...
i'd love to watch a movie...
from beginning to end...
i'm keeping the Lighthouse stashed for some
proper timing...
shot in black & white...
well... it's not the Seventh Seal...
although... Bergman's movie about a magician
was far more entertaining than Wild Strawberries...
but "we" grew up in a time when
watching a film adaptation of
high fidelity was something...
when the record shop was Mecca...
i had a girlfriend for whom i made a mix-c.d. for...
she would go to work on Oxford St at
the Mark & Spencer and listen
to this one song i put on the disk...
King Crimson's Epitaph...
i guess Oxford St. at 6am in the morning:
on a sunny morning:
come to think of it:
even Dundee must look liveable when
the sun is shining...
this beautiful ****-up of a city
that's London... if i go somewhere monochromatic:
mono-ethnic i feel a sickness that's
never going to be comparable...
i need to suckle off this... Babylon...
we actually made mixed-c.d.s for each other...
thankfully it didn't become a relationship:
that tired "thing" of... paying taxes: naked...
raising children...
i've listened to the arguments
of men who married young...
my "secret weapon" blah blah...
what sort of man would i have become
if i didn't marry... early... or at all...
i can tell you what sort of man i have become...
i read some philosophy books...
i grew a beard...
i cut my long hair from a hippy monstrosity
into something that looks: up-kept:
respectable...
if i were 35 married with children...
i was dropped a phrase into the inbox
of my ex... i said: she had the saddest face on earth...
i forgot to mention ol' Henry VIII's struggles...
a meat-grinder... of a machine...
5 babies down... no sons... only daughters...
she grew-up in a household with a father
and two brothers...
it must be sad: i suggested...
to be so fertile... yet without a son...
she didn't get why i said she looked sad...
exhausted... from... pooping out
one daughter after another...
nothing to truly mould... no?
regrets... but today i'm oblivious to them...
i have a comfortable warming
blanket of whiskey & cognac...
it almost trickle a sense of sophistication for me
to deal with...
as much as i'd love to buy flowers...
a bouquet of a single pink rose...
let's not overdo the hopes of...
i rather be left intact & curious...
than... somehow barren & oddly: happy...
since melancholy is a statement
of the aura... it's fiddling with: nascence...
well... what a word:
i guess i'm immune to the woke-brigade...
if some are "woke": then i'm: slept...
or.. nascent...
but it can't go without "question":
******* virgins is a terrible idea...
the incel community shares the same
metaphor logic of Islam...
something about a gem in a shop that sells...
jewels... keeping the one pristine gem
intact... hidden...
but... aren't you... selling?
******* virgins is a terrible idea...
give me 72 i'd ask for
72 rottweilers primo...
                 king crimson: starless...
the phantom of the film... MANDY...
the neon demon was a disappointment...
the soundtrack wasn't...
oddly enough i know what ******* a ******
feels like... the cockerel shrinks...
needle... thread... what's being protected is...
a thin skin layer of cobweb...
takes enough practice to lubricate it...
why is purity somehow: so... circumstanced
as important?
they're not exactly Sri Lankan rubber
of bicycles wheels...
i've heard this saying once before:
in passing...
don't marry a very attractive woman..
and as i cycle i pass some examples of breeders...
most of the women are: utensils...
by standards of beauty...
such a waste... all the beautiful ones...
like flowers of every spring... like every generation:
go into prostitution or *******...
the last date i was on
happened after a night out in a club...
she thought...
in the park i downed a bottle of wine...
we went to a bar... i drank some more...
she lied about a prior engagement...
with some friends...
oh look... no convert...
i don't do dating... it's so...
stressing shadow...
                  one pink rose is enough...
if she isn't buying...
better a lubricated ****...
in praise of prostitutes...
                 we're naked: first... we're naked:
last... we keep it... gesticulating at our
desire for cleanliness...
why wouldn't i praise them?
second-hand... what-what?!
               who the **** is some don juan
looking for a nunnery?!
i'm looking for a woman
that might reveal a leather armchair!
might reveal: make alias revelling in it...
without: lies...
i abhor lies...
maybe that's why i adore prostitutes...
she could have slept within
the confines of Solomon's harem:
if... there were as many Solomons
as there were his concubines...
bitter-sweet... as much wisdom as is allowed...
Solomon had no edge over David...
can you write...
a maxim... when a psalm if dawning?

sure... it would be nice to be ******:
to be licked in the funny places...
but i rather churn my own raspberry ice-cream:
and have a concept of "friend": kept to a minimalist
concern...

Johnny Cash made a pact with
Mr. Nairobi... a music producer above all others...
Rick "ricochet" Rubin...
slap on tender paws:
the kangaroo skip-jimmy...

bother me... the scent of the brothel on the tip
with an opened bottle of bourbon...
who the **** was asking for a nun?!
sure as **** i wasn't asking for one...
one of whoever you are: were?!

- that i can grasp the nakedness:
flesh market...
i can own... pigtails i can own...
the breath...
i relieve myself from having torn:
towing ambitions of mother...
grandmother... sister... daughter...

less lament for what i could be...
less lament for:
lament in itself...
              i'll pluck my eyes out...
watch the traffic... cater for the moon:
bloom:
rift and itch...
wholesome...

what would i be... married...
i would most certainly not have
read: any philosophy books...
thank god...
i don't earn enough to pay taxes..
hello unicorns!
hello... waste.
terrible idea for a date...
beginning with...
whoever had the most:
please stand up...

don't feed the gluttonous beast
of envy... of male "prowess"...
a bicycle overpowers the legs
overpowers the need for car:
and a passenger...
lift me: dead...
toward the breath... the air...
the nuance...

in the shallows... on the grounds of
counting pebbles...
among prostitutes...
if i were: somehow: too...
a barber...
a... labrador... a bartender...
but thank god the **** feels so good
that... it doesn't require a date...
all that leash...
praise them all that i can...
because the ones that become
wombs... proper.. mothers...
are... invisible... creatures..
creatures, that they are...
in the least...

               women that would hardly
want to make a Sunday afternoon
into... making...
some homemade raspberry ice-cream...
i don't want to love someone
on a leash: donning a muzzle...

it would be so much easier
if i were just: outright... gay.

What unsettled is gone
Dreams and longings are in same current
The warmth in sunshine just heating up the path.
The days repeat all the same.
The watchable sunsets has already moonlight.
Renowned Autumn already passed by.
Season and weather all shattered.
There comes winter,
My already cold body meets the cold air.
Just living in percussion.
How should I convey,
I'm lost inside.
The body is walking by.
Please, someone
Bring me a sunshine,
I'm under the moonlight.

Of late the mind is disturbed
Sometimes I feel a bit perturbed
The heart is in pain
What's going on right now is truly insane
The threshold for injustice has been crossed a long time ago
It's alarming now.. It's no more a watchable show
If one can't question or debate
Then I guess from now on we have to address democracy as 'LATE'
The constant labelling and trolling
The abuses and the name calling
This hasn't and will not deter the fight
It may seem dark now but after darkness there's always light
And I'm still hopeful that amid all the barbarism, the violence and the clashes
Someday.. Democracy shall rise once again.. Like a Phoenix from the ashes
Dear Mr Fascist...you can threaten and impose a ban
But please don't underestimate the power of a common man