after acquiring the english language,
and synthesising it for twenty years...
ugh... breakfast that is but a cup of water
and immediately feeling bloated...
or just imagining that you can live
on food and alcohol... like a diesel engine....
comes to just as much
     trying to catch butterflies akin to
nabokov, or thoughts...
      and are either, so trully necessary?
well... unless you take to calling it
the only relative opposite of picking up
a gun and shooting someone for no reason
other than a per se reason, which
subsequently has to be reasoned with -
akin to this...
  or, dare i say, picking up a philosophy book
and seeing how there is clearly
a child in there, esp. in english -
how each philosophy book seems to be
avoiding the pronoun i -
such is the nature of these books,
    a lot of hide & seek happening -
with the basic formula of: being yourself,
to avoid, your self.
then again as this french girlfriend told
me when she was staying in edinburgh
for a year to complete her erasmus program
from the university of grenòble
and she was doing this psychology experiment
and she needed native speakers...
  and i was given the stick for trying to
fake her science by suggesting that i'd do it...
yeah...
           well i really did hook up with her when
an american was about to court her,
and that's the only time i played the huinter-gatherer
role, or was motivated to do so,
when we went bar crawling and i pulled her
from the crowd and we stayed behind while
the group moved to another pub...
that was the only time i felt a need to do the "chase",
later this thing called the categorical imperative
came along, and i subsequently lost the impetus
to compete...
being a gladiator could have been greater,
what with the hardships of life...
but you can watch these gladiators fall...
quiet easily, buying groceries in a supermarket,
or opening a fridge door...
it's this return to the mundane, the household
environment can really beat a man,
if his life is lived to sample the ancient
field of danger...
   so when i did get the schtick of her empiricism
i decided: well... i'm no native....
and aren't we all so puritan about science
when some of it can't be falsified,
which it can:
        never too fond of accents myself...
native or alien...
               some people have a fetish for
feet or a french accent...
                        but that ***** essex slur...
or however you'd like to put it,
  it's not even cockney, but you get to hear
something quasi-cockney around these parts
more often, given that a lot of londoners
are moving away to these parts...
cockney meets essex county...
or meats it... yep: beats it silly with squalor
and at the same time: sophistication of living
in cement graveyards of an international city...
then again, you walk into a forest at night
during the summer, wearing only a t-shirt...
and it's freezing!
   you can actually hear Gaia breathing...
and then out of the woods and onto the cement...
that rush of feeling a complete change
of temperature... well... that's something.
          oh it wasn't me, i didn't dump that
french bird, she dumped me,
       as an experienced woman in her early
twenties would, to a ****** (who lost it with her),
18 year old.
    memories and all, what a grand cinema,
sipping absinthe on the streets of athens,
the athenian strip-club...
                sitting on a stool looking at a stripper
while holding two women in my arms
and kissing that sweet, sweet tender *****...
what happened after?
   drank all my money away,
                was escorted by a bouncer to a cash
machine... ****** myself
           and scuttled away back to the hostel....
and then took the bus from athens to katowice...
macedonia? beautiful, very hilly...
       serbia though... a plataeu of snow...
and i admit, belgrade from the distance
looked stunnig... esp. because of the snow.
oh right, i was supposed to insert a          )
having begun it with a     (      of an original prompt...
english really does have this natural
basis to invoke a self-conscious pronoun base of i,
it's like there's this need for a double-certainty
of the speaker stating that: it really is that person
speaking... or even thinking...
     polish        as a language? it rarely uses
the pronoun ja, i.e. i,
                          it's just certain -
english has to overtly use the pronoun -
      and it would be certainly pointless to ditto it
out... like some careless selfish womanisers
by the name of sartre...
                   that's the one thing i don't understand
about sartre, how it could ever be, something
about "ego"... more like Igor and doctor frankenstein...
i find that expression, yes, that alone
   " e g o " to be akin to pontius pilate washing his hands:
for whather transgression: i can't be to blame...
and then comes that ****** mantra
of mea culpa... and it just goes on and on...
to be frank, the whole point of mea culpa
is to transcend any invocation of self-pity...
      it's probably the foremost notion of transcendentalism,
well given that self-pity exists in people,
and some people would rather take blame;
indeed, it is my fault that i once had a heart
to feel intimate with someone, or even entertain
the idea of a fwend...
                            if anyone asks, i'll just be
a hermit, in my little cave.

the rain is collecting onomatopoeia (rare
to find a word with plurality in it
misspelled in the geometric hyper-linear
onomatopoeias) -
ever think of the womaniser bred
from feminism? i know you haven't,
and i know you won't before playing
the Shelley game of test-tubes -
your ideals i'll never die for -
i'd be in the trenches during the first world war,
but your world, i don't want to be part of.
she read Huxley, he played football -
he was an outdoor kind of guy,
she was a moth rather than a butterfly,
a new breed of womanisers has spawned -
turns out my kind are the idiots -
well... hello darling, welcome to the real world.
the rain is pouring out there, god playing
piano, looking for both onomatopoeia and metaphor...
it's drain drain drip... it's hospitalised drain
drain drip and the words that encourage
the wholly vacant - the rain -
imagine the evolutionary tactic approached with
assimilation, the invisible immigrants i call them -
they're there, they always want
the dumb innocent Alexei Karamazov to marry,
but when it comes to the events via Ivan as
hidden wedlock, they want the knights of Charlemagne
to *****-slap them silly for the crown of menopause -
i.e. what if i wasn't a woman and never wished
to be one?! freeze the *****, invoke onto me
a belittled version of ****** - you know you are neo
accomplices, and now defence from feminism will
spare you such association;
just remember why the Nazis loved science,
feminists love it too! more in the extreme -
all that's missing is the eradication of Eastern Europeans -
a fear of Russia - most feminists are in love
with the potentials of science like Nazis -
i kept my phallus in a pickle jar to prove her point
that she wanted to reign over the role of the Paraclete
as the comforter of futures to come -
god she loves the fascists - the womanisers in
feminism and the idiots that marry her -
leave her! let her utilise the full potential of a Frankenstein!

On an early Monday morn
Into this world my mother bore me
Although I never asked her to
But still she bore me
Into a hospital
A patient
Out of the train
Onto the station
The light, the air,
The Decompression,
No wonder that my first impression
I can't remember,
My mother thought I had a temper,
The nurses watched my massive member,
They put me down as baby boomer
Yeah, I was born to be consumer
But when I'm in my old age
I hope to be if not the driver,
Then at least the passenger

Aren't we going somewhere?

On holiday, perhaps?
Where birds of paradise dance
In savage colours
And sing in dazzling trance,
Where man's institutions are far away,
Where banks don't feed on our flesh,
Away from roaring trucks with pigs
Set for slaughter,
Away from downtown Bangladesh,
Away from ugly neighbours
And their children,
Away into the sweet fresh air
With no wifi
No zombifying TV,
No bling-bling chavs with one beat one key one theme music,
Where the weather is tolerable
And the scam of social media is no more,
We will leave the choking fumes
And strange wars...
Except we won't,
Cause that isn't where we go.
Let's be realistic,
We like postmodern world
It's lovely masochistic,
It takes out minds off questions
That probe beyond statistics,
Questions we don't even know how to phrase,
But fools are always one step ahead,
Delays make them enraged baboons,
When I am in my old age
I expect to see banners on the moon
And clouds shaped by advertisers,
Robot womanisers
And insect appetisers,
New ways to use fertilisers
On human brains
Making us none the wiser
But great at analysing market value
And levels of offensiveness.
I hope you don't think that I'm implying
That you will have something to do with this.
I know you're all good people here..
It's the corporations, of course.
Those classical psychopaths:
Self interested
Manipulative
Always the best
They prefer not to compete with the rest
Nor accept responsibility,
They suffer no conscience
Feel no remorse
And present superficial versions of themselves
To the world,
To the good people
Who take on their traits
Day by day
Year by year
Generation by generation
Because .. you know ..
Market forces and ..
Hunger .. for .. something..
Progress something !...
..it's the right way!
So what would you like to change?
Is this really your pimple?
When I am in my old age
I would like to be simple
I'll have my special armchair
That will be the envy of all people,
And I'd like to hope that something will be done
About climate change
But for that Israel needs to cease to exist
As well as all the other countries,
Old and new,
And national symbolism must get relegated
To the domain of underwear, swimming trunks and bathing towels,
Where washing machines will eventually bleach it into oblivion,
And the world must become truly global,
Entering the space age
United under redefined humanity!
When I am in my old age,
I still expect to see insanity on a global scale,
People fishing in empty oceans
Sailing their way to French Polynesia
on raging 20 metre waves
only to find French Polynesia
somehow not there anymore..
I hope not to be a bore in my old age,
I hope nostalgia won't be classed as a
Disease
And heavily medicalized.
I hope suicide will be legal like bread
I hope my head won't have the texture
Of a woman's inner thigh,
I hope my neck won't look like an accordion,
I hope I won't be making involuntary noises
Every time I lie down,
And I hope to lie down between women's inner thighs
From to  time,
Yeah, I really hope this can be arranged
When I am in my old age
Even if I smell of old people
I hope the smell of old people will be ****
I guarantee it will get very messy
If they won't let me
Take my pension money out
all at once,
I intend to own the stage
Until my very last breath
When I am in my old age
I hope impending death won't make
Religious, or spiritual,
Whichever's worse..
When I am in my old age
I fully expect hats to be in vogue again
And smoking in airports
And free range drugs
When I am in my old age
Maturity will triumph
Over the teenage bugs
With naked ankles and baseball caps,
And the myth of youth will rightfully collapse,
And I will order and convincing martini,
Drive a convincing car,
Snap a convicting finger at the waiter
To the rhythm of swing played at the bar
Somewhere close to the equator
On some not-too-distant star
I will be my own dictator,
I'll be my own tsar
And all will be jolly!
Apart from all this
I really have no worries.
So let me get drunk and let the world laugh
For there is a remedy for everything
But death
(and burning cathedrals)
And as long as we are laughing
We do not weep
About the roses that we picked
That even the sweetest showers
Won't make grow again.