On April 26th, 372 B.C. Plato was the first man to inflict injury upon his own dreams.
Not the forms casting shadows in his cave, his literal dreams.
At 6:35 a.m. the impish snarl of a water ***** crept into his Utopia of an
all-you-can-eat gyro cart overturned at the corner of his street and roused him
back to consciousness. The ingenious design of his Clepsydra quite obviously complete,
Aristotle came running with the awkward stride of a sleepwalking adolescent
to see what his master had done. When he arrived he saw flying,
two pots of water, an air-compressing submersible chamber and one water ***** reed.
Aristotle quickly collected the shattered pieces and noted
that this broken pottery was more real than time itself.

On September 21st, 712 A.D. a small village just outside the boundaries of
Chang'an, China came dangerously close to taking the life of the palace
astronomer/inventor/sleepyhead. Crowding around the door of Yi Xing, the
townspeople tore their robes and wailed for him to put a stop to the
incessant clanging. Xing, who had apparently overslept and was still
clinging to morsels of fading dreams about his young mistress, stuffed his
face into his pillow, muttering eureka, after first having chucked the
two clay pots, handful of stones and plate-sized gong out the front door,
much to the amusement of the assembly of drooping eyelids and torn pajamas.

In the year 1235 A.D. tortured residents of Baghdad began associating their
daily and nightly times for prayer with the ringing of their eardrums from
uninvited chimes.

In 1493 St. Mark's Clock-tower polluted the once-pure Venetian air with
hourly reminders that we are all yet one hour closer to our inevitable death
and the priests of the day called it humility.

Levi Hutchins of New Hampshire turned to a pine cabinet, brass clock and
mechanical gears in 1787, and for the first time gave himself the ability to
choose when he would hate the morning.

In 1847, French inventor Antoine Redier began making money off of people's
early morning auditory masochism.

Lew Wallace, the morning after completing his masterpiece novel "Ben Hur,"
awoke with a fiendish beeping in his ear and proceeded to invent the paradox
of the snooze button.

In Spring of 1942 the war in Europe raged and all U.S. alarm clock production ceased.

In the Spring of 1943 well-rested factory men, confronted by their foreman
upon arrival at 9:15, erupted the words "my alarm clock is broken,"
forever placing the excuse in the deep pockets of slackers
world-wide.

To all of these respected men of our history
Who have thought with their hands to create
The foundation of a society drowning in Starbucks,
I wish to express my sincerest ingratitude.

I lie awake in bed at night,
Licking the bitter taste of reality from my cheeks,
In the company of Plato, Lew Wallace and Yi Xing,
Wondering what dreams will be stolen from me.

To: Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
Mr.Mustache
By:Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Mackintosh, sir
Under the shades of the Willow Tree
I picked up the flower
Your Pink Rose
A nouveau time, nouveau mean
Lights shines through
The minimal window panes
I see, the marriage, renaissance
The White Rose and the Red one too
Blue, Scottish blues
Now, the pedals broken, they flew
Leaving only
My violet soul

Our Naked Souls
Written by: Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
Friday, April 10, 2015

I like to lay beside warm bodies
Never too used to the cold
But my love is for naught
but a dream within a dream

I still want to be with you
Through the tulips and willow
But I don't know, don't know
If my memories still withhold
Within, within you

Because
You left me caressing the air
Breath what's not there through
Me and my naked soul
My naked soul
My naked soul

Swimming through the wind
I saw shadows but nothing to hold
I kept my memories of old
and a silent story to be told

But
Your absence stripped me bare
and left me in the cold
Me and my naked soul
My naked soul
My naked soul
I sat under the willow shade
Peeled at the pink rose
and thought of you
But nothing's clear

Since
You left me here
With another muddled affair
I can only feel
Us and our naked souls
Our naked souls
Our naked souls

The Packrat has morphed into a hoarder
I tried to removed the monkey in a suite off his back and put it in he barrel with the rest of them even though it wasn't my business, although I was its uncle

Get in

A quaint little bungalow
Where sweltering heat is a constant
"There's coffee on the back burner, ya want some?"

It was a blessing in disguise
A bona fide  slice of paradise

We read up on the complex of Oedipus Rex and the debate of moral fiber when talking about Ped Xing

We hopped on to a plane going to Pismo Beach and joined the mile high club then enjoyed clams on the half shell  

We listen to a dollar fifty nickelodeon
And talked about how music is dead because everyone is just na na naing and yeah yeah yeahing their way to the top of the pop charts  

Over a *** pie
I confessed my love
His rebuttal seemed abysmal to my sleeve dwelling heart

He said this was an unnatural habitat for him
And if we were to be together it would raise eyebrows
Tarnish his illustrious reputation

It was an unanswered prayer
After all the whatnots and whathaveyous
He got sick and died of AIDS about a year and a half later
He never came out

Dodged a bullet there on that one

He picked me up hitchhiking on Tylerfoote Xing
My years were twenty, headphones on and moshing
I sported cut-offs and my "Docs" on that stubborn hot day
My Mohawk was three colors, I was an obvious gay

Allen Ginsberg 1984 in front of Ma Trux
He pulled over in a dust cloud, this was my luck
"Where are you headed?" said he, "I'm on my way to SF"
"Just to town." said me, "that's far enough."

"Where are you from?" came a chortle with this query
"From New Jersey I hail, how 'bout you my deary?"
A gaff of a laugh came then and two words, "me too."
"Oh really?" came my sarcasm, "How lucky for you."

"To escape," I finished then a gaffing  stabbed further
He looked so odd, my fear was, " I hope I'm not murdered."
Obviously much older, a bit pudgy and bald
When he told me his name it meant nothing at all

Said he was from Newark, this did not impress me either
"Me? Camden," though he might guess from my wife-beater
"What's that music you've got?" said my chauffeur
"A mixed tape. The Clash, DK's and Psychedelic Furs"

"Pop it in the dash, lets have a listen my friend."
As he glared at my flesh, I thought, "this is my end"
He popped it out almost immediately and declared
"This is awful and loud, your generation makes me scared!"
  
We argued a bit about music and art
"Patti Smith is the greatest poet!" I told the old ****
"She's from Jersey too, like Walt Whitman and us."
Allen's reply, "Oh really, what's the fuss?"

"Whitman comes from Camden, I'm a poet like him"
Ginsberg said, "oh yeah, well let's hear some Slim"
So I began to recite from "Leaves Of Grass"
"Not Walt! Give me yours kid, I don't want to hear him, you ***."

So I threw at him my most recent, "Angel With A Pool Que"
He complimented me so nicely, I believed he spoke true
"Ever hear of Howl? I'm a poet too."
He recited dozens of lines and I thought "p-u"

My offer was, "It needs some work"
His exclamation was, "Do you know who I am, you ****?
I'm Allen Ginsberg, you mean you haven't heard of me?"
I exclaimed my name back, boldly emoting "don't you see?"

We laughed together it was a joyous moment in time
Then his hand moved to my knee as he blurted some rhyme
I picked it right up and placed it back on the steer
"If that's what you want Sir, I can walk from here"

He stopped his car there in the middle of the 49 highway
"I mean you no harm young man, I assumed you were gay"
I explained, "Of course I am, but we are not going there"
He was a perfect gentleman then on, with out even a swear

I inquired with my friends when I got to town
Of this charming old poet I left with a frown
They jumped and spun and called me "**** crazy"
One handed me Howl in hard cover; I felt dim as a daisy

Momentary Insanity
By: Yue Xing Yitkbel ****, Tuesday, December 27, 2011 12:26PM
The enchantment
Of the ecstasy
Of the suffocation
Of the subjective notion of
Acceptable obsession and love
Curtains
More or less:
The deafening poison of the air,
Imprisoning the suffocating soul
In the imprisonment of the sinful flesh,
Never letting a breath of dominance
Of inner actuality;
The ignorance
To the boundless autonomy
Of the ever present
Communication
Among each grain of spirit,
Each grain of the soul;
The helpless,
Useless,
Caged wandering,
Wondering,
Of the seeking aspiration
That which would have been contented
With a flight of spirituality;
Instead,
We are confined to the sin,
Peeking out of the darkness
Only through our momentary
"Insanity"

Everyone's tired of
Brexit, us more than
the politicians, at least
they don't know what's
going on. Everything we
see with an X brings it
to mind, even Weet-bix
and that is an AM staple.

Oxo cubes, Paxo Stuffing,
its everywhere, lunchtime.

In the evening down the
pub we have Castlemaine
xxxx.

Last night I was at Bingo
everyone was Xing the
numbers, how is it going
to end.

Pax Brittanica?

The Death of the Poet
By: Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
9:38PM
10/21/2013 TO, ON

Part 1 Down the Rabbit Hole:

He had faith in exceptions
He was optimistic
He "believed in six impossible things just before breakfast"
and had his cake.
He mused of the bunny farm
and fought the jabberwocky in his dreams.
These things failed him.
He woke up, and was crushed with the mice
In a snap of revelation
and
Under the weight of truth.
He was shattered, along with the coral corpses
Of the paperweight

Part 2 The Paper Weight:

A coral in the glass paperweight
A hummingbird shielded by twigs
The fragile illusion
A naive illusion
"The beautiful illusion"
Quoth Marlow, our dear friend Charlie.
Through the looking glass
His world, the Poet's world,
was shattered,
Not by "a sea of trouble"
Nor by words of a mature revelation
but by Silence.

Part 3 The Horror, The Horror:

The wrath and sorrow of the composers
Were expressed
In the requiem of silence.
The conductor threw his hand open
In the final flight of the dove
For the poet, the dreamer,
Who, and whose ballads and odes
Were silenced on the battlefronts of the nouveau era.
No one followed when he chased the seagulls.
No one answered his pleads and screams of wrath and sorrow.
In the end, there was only silence
For the poet, and his poetry.
To this he whispered:
"The Horror, the Horror"
And then
Nothing more.

Transformation
-Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
Senile, Fragile
The old man struggled with his nervously useless last breath
And
Yields.
Accompanied by insignificant drops of tears
Always unnoticeably present with the passage of “time”
He goes away too
Miraculously shrinking, rotting and decaying
And
“Eventually” blends in with the rest of the wise drool dusts
Transforming to almost frightening
Subtly dark and sane flowers
Impatient to invade
And conquer those stepping her upon the foolishly stupid “ground”
Yes, I am, in all “contradicting” frustration
Announcing my impurity as human flesh.
His helpless soul is hopefully gone
To the Godly realm,
Where, divinely, with ecstasy, unknown, sets all the earthly rules with ease
And without necessity

breeding frenzied jawboning
nastiness, rock'm sock'm vermin
zealously, dizzying hordes kickstart
outrageous trampling, xMen busting

displays, heralding luminary
pastoral times, Xing Bethlehem
figurine Jesus observes sacrilegious
wackiness anarchy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  
Ah, nothing beats the fistfights,
   bloodied noses,
   knocked unconscious bruising
   bad *** blimp

   at absolute gall
bladder kicking, eye poking,
   neck choking, up pall
ling, et cetera brutality at this,
   that, or s'mother mall

far from madding crowd portentous squall,
but at a safe distance
   removed along a deserted hall
witnessing flying seer sucker-punches,

   et cetera all
encompassing pandemonium
   solely about one small
pinterest ting live mutant

   ninja vudu doll, a mere couple inches tall,
sporting ability to transform
   into an antagonistic tournament
   cavalier two pronged horn spurning beast,
   which former attribute
   manufacturer didst install
with constituent parts shipped from Blue Ball

poker red hot furious loosed bull
   eyeing a glitter bauble
   half cocked pissant, with an alien drawl
dressed in bulletproof coverall

shoving people
   just another brick against a wall
angrily erupt volcano like,
   provoking  lava lee flowing mayhem,
   when a security detail
   prior to temporary cease fire didst recall

merely axes whatsapp with y'all
thence, bing kicked in groin
   and reduced to crawl,
   thus in no mood to sing jingall
bells, where stood,

   yet another beefy watchman
   aghast at squall
lid human wrecking machine
   analogously offensive as off fall
spreading riotous wildfire conflagration

   analogous to absent referee,
   when sure betted best
   team mate of foot ball  
   lost Superbowl game
   by a tackle merely postal
stamp size distance to win game,

   thus anonymous observer
   made an urgent call
   to Donald Trump, whose reaction begot
an uncontrollable nuclear fusion reaction

   jerryrigged, hair-pulling,
   fisticuff dueling brawl,
spreading bedlam, sparking
   avast capitalone, groupon,
   flickr ring plenti tinder
   triggering military police to go awol.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
a quick thinking whippersnapper
   holds up a baseball bat
as a make shift microphone,
   donning reversed hat
feigns to be an announcer
   live from pseudo faux palestra and spat
out nonsensical *** for tat.

The Chinese Room To. Alan Turing
-Reinheit Wahnsinn (Yue Xing ****)
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
10:39PM
Stuck in the chinese room
Trying to spell the word love
Is it ironic having understood
The test to test my doom

They could not compute
love, trying to dispute
Cogito ergo sum
I think,
Therefore I am, to love
does it matter whom

I’ll be back soon
sing the poisonless tune
I’ll be back soon
just watch as it fall the fruit
I’ll be there,
in the shadows of the moon

Stuck in the chinese room
Is it really better a fool
Pillaging through the rules
False false false or true
I’ll keep my cool
Wrath of the fool
Where to where to
The other tree with the fruits

I’ll keep my cool
Wrath of the fool
What to do what to do
The tragedy of my so called truth

clangorously declaring emergency, fate grimly heckles,
implies jackknifed life, killing my natural optimism,
positivism quashed, re: sort to undertake vitality,
wreckage xing yawping, zigzagging, alms breeching
charily. death embraced for grave happenstance,
indigent jarring kingdom, losing my native ordinary pleasure,
quivering ringing, singularly tripping uppermost volume
while Xeroxing yellowing zone, albatross blithely crushing desire
effecting fun, grippe holding impossible, Jackhammer
keeps lamentably mashing nasty oppressive pierced quaking,
reducing sensibility to utterly voiced worthlessness,
x-rays yield zero ambition boosting capacity driving
existence, future gloomy heralds iffy joie de vivre, killing
lousy male negative outlook presages quintessential
rage spilling thru useless voiceless wretched xiphoid zeal.

Oh shalihonba
Yangtze ka
kakawaka
oh ching shing
shali!
honba!
oh shalishali!
shalihonba!
**** SHALIHONBA XING PING!
LONG PA SHALIHONBA!!
ABNOHILAHS!

that's the second time i was offered to have a *******, i honestly wasn't ready for this one; Khedra was telling me that the girl with the glasses was in a good mood, she stressed it as: she's really, really in a good mood, how about you give us extra and i tell her to come up? i replied: i've just come back from a 12 hour shift, i'm only after a quickie... SLAP... well yeah! i slap her *** during *******, pinch her, bite her... i follow the Kama Sutra to an exactness, obviously i have read it... i know that some women don't get it, but the ones that do? well... it makes ******* all the more fun, after all, we're not slimy mollusks wriggling about, there's more to us than mere caressing and *******... you don't have to **** out all the alternative kinks, although... i'd love to enlarge the ****** to a full body latex suit... i'm not going to lie...

she clearly missed me, i missed her,
but when she came back she knew i was already with
two other girls, Michaela and... oh my god...
i forgot her name: but not her face...
the one that talked too much during ***...
i hate talking during ***:
i don't need "god" in the bedroom...
eyes speak for the eyes,
lips speak for the lips,
phallus speaks for the phallus...
etc.
            but in Khedra's presence i couldn't
just... pick someone else...
i picked her because i knew i'd be guaranteed
unprotected ***...
that's how the rock rolls as it were...
you establish a trust with a woman when
she sees your approach to hygiene...
and then she doesn't even bother asking for more
money... hell... oral and actual genital interaction
unprotected... i forgot how good it feels:
although, like i already mentioned:
i'm also a big fan of condoms...
why? you never know how a woman will
put it on... it varies so greatly...
one will **** it on... another will stretch it
and put it on... various techniques...
  some will look you in the eyes others prefer
not to look: probably reimagining you as
some monster...
i'm no Don Juan, not some Casanova:
my pockets are not that deep...
                        i'm a crustacean lover...
                               sure... if i had more money to shower,
buy gifts... alas: all i have is Ovid's lament
to girls... i can... give them a book of my poems...
a ****** gift, i know... but hey: beggars can't be choosers...
but i knew Khedra missed me...
why? she wanted to be on top this time round...
she usually wants me to arch over her
and do her... sorry: take her to the monastery
of missionaries from Portugal in Japan
(some ******* of my own, thinking)...
i was startled at the fact that i left a ******* imprint
in her...
she sat on my slid it in: right...
*****... it's like with bras... it takes rigid fingers
to undo a bra... the whole point of penetrating a woman's
******? you don't aim for the floral pattern for the *****:
that's for oral ***...
   for the gob to slobber all over it... tongue whirlwind...
when penetrating? you're basically "pretending"
to be aiming for the *******... the distance between
the ****** entry point and the ******* is pretty short...
it's strange how it works...
but i knew she missed me because she recognised
me... already two or three cowgirl giddy-up attempts
of her and she was having those hot-shivers...
she was quivering... hey!
she had to stop from time to time because:
the hot-shivers were attacking her...
    no... of course it wasn't a full ******... but a microcosm
of one...

point being: i didn't ask for permission to try all
the other girls... she told me, she told me:
YOU HAVE TO TRY ALL THE OTHER GIRLS...
she also asked me... tell me, truthfully:
which did you prefer? Michaela, the short fat
girl with ******* or the girl who was sitting opposite
me? the tall, legs to the heavens?
so i told her... the former...
i had a thing for this pornographic actress...
oddly enough also Romanian: Jasmine Black...
and i was like... i need to find me someone similar...
hey presto! Michaela!
the exact proportions: i wouldn't say fat,
i'd say: a pretty plump plum of a woman...

Khedra just kept slapping my chest...
i just kept slapping her ***... biting her chin:
the usual round of bollocking...
i'm done with the English approach to ***...
double standards: yeah: ooh ooh... keep it in the bedroom!
shh! shh! and then once in the bedroom!
all the ugly kinks come out...
all those ungodly conversations: "conversations"
about mummies, daddies and "god" knows what else...
there's no talking when i'm *******:
again... i will no desecrate the altar of this much
pleasure by bringing: and in the beginning there was
the word and the word was with god...
and it was... ever heard of an Eclectus or a Quaker
Parakeet talk, without man talking first?
no! in the beginning only the gods could talk...
mind you... hmm: ooh! ooh!
if Prometheus (the titan) brought down fire to men
and was punished for it by the gods...
who brought down the word (communication,
writing) down from the gods to be left among
men?! who?! who?!
was it not the jealous god, who's name i will not utter
but encrypt?! so the Hebrew deity
would be seen... in the Greek mind...
as a Titan! well... no wonder he's jealous:
the people who venerate him are constantly punished!
why? if Prometheus was punished for brining
to man the fire... the Hebrews are punished for the fact
that their deity brought down "telepathic" communication:
writing, scribbling... and the gods watched
on and saw: well... ****'s going to hit the fan proper
when they start scribbling graffiti on cement walls
thinking they're ****** clever...
dyslexia strong! they'll muddle up the sounds
and overcomplicate their spelling(s)!

i love it... writing *** and about the gods...
it's like the perfect combination for... ah ha ha: disaster...
the days of scientific rationalisation are over:
it's time to return to mythology -
look at it this way: mythology is the antithesis
of journalism: i'm sort of having a backlash
from all the journalism: degraded journalism,
tabloid rather than investigative journalism:
we're not talking high quality journalism
of All the President's Men... we're talking trash:
at best a journalist tells me that X happened at Y...
or there's the editorial section of a newspaper
where i get opinions: a cul de sac of opinions...
since, it's the "rhetoricians'" corner... what sort
of dialectic do you think newspapers allow?
    it's slim... with those "letters" to the editor...
journalism as shambles...

    as i'm writing this i'm gazing at the most beautiful
in heaven... a late summer lightning storm...
lightning without: either thunder or rain...
as if the sky was a giant jellyfish + brain and i'm seeing
it think... wrestle with itself...

- i honestly don't know why i allowed the *******
of my cats give them names...
but they stuck... shouldn't the owner of the pet give
his pet a name, rather than allow the ******* to name them?
QUORUS... honestly? it's not that bad...
quo rus: where are you going, Russian?
and he's ginger... fair enough... makes sense now...
but he's what? 7+ years old...
so... back in the day any conflict with Russia didn't
make sense... my cat's name just makes sense now...
i didn't name him... perhaps: qua rus,
id est: as being Russian... Quorus?! are you a Russian?!
last time i heard Maine ***** came from Maine:
north America...

mind you: Andrew Lloyd Webber got it spot on in
Cats... when he, or whoever did: wrote that cats don't
have one name, they have several names...
they have a name for whatever i feel like calling it...
my female Maine **** is usually
called ヤマモト (ya-ma-mo-to) whenever she's
imploring to be let in to the house:
but in her persistent silence, she just sits by the door
giving no indication to be let in...
i forget how many names i have given Quorus...
but i sometimes: secretly give him the name
******... but that's between me and him...
either ****** or AZRAEL... poor ******...
each time i go into the garden to refill my cup with ice-cubes...
i leave the bedroom: he's sleeping quietly
as if pretending to be a cushion...
the moment i leave he's up and standing on the spot
of the windowsill where i perch to drink and smoke...
looking out for me...
whether or not i will return or not...
then he'll jump onto the roof above the kitchen
and play the CERBERUS' role... watching the lightning
storm (without thunder or rain) with me...

hmm... what happened today?
today i was relaxing after a mammoth shift juggling
over the weekend... i didn't feel like doing much...
i cleaned the house... because i'm a ******* pedantic...
i need the house to be clean:
i can't allow my parents to clean the house for themselves:
my mother's arthritis doesn't allow me to just
leave a massive stink... mind you: it felt so pointless
vacuuming... i wasn't picking much dirt from
the floors... and then obviously mopping the floors...
i like the smell of citrus on wood...

then? a quick bicycle session on my Trek Merlin 5
"Rolls Royce"... recycling empty glass bottles...
buying a whiskey and some pepsi-cola...
oh... and some MAJOR good news...

what's for dinner? pizza... homemade, what else?!
there's probably one thing i love making more than
ice-cream... esp. mint choc-chip ice-cream...
one day i'll make me chocolate ice-cream...
i hate chocolate ice-cream...
i have this fine potent mint growing in my garden...
the ice-cream came out amazing:
i didn't even have to add any artificial colouring:
just the right sort of colour... pale green...
much much paler than the colour of my irises...

ENDLICH, REGEN!
         ich brauchen wasser für mein bäume im mein garten!

but there's only one thing that gives me more pleasure
than making ice-cream... ooh...
making pizza-dough! i love sculpting that
*** of a lazy lady of yeast... the smell of yeast
is about as intoxicating as the scent of wet
rosemary or thyme or mint in the night
when it rains and rains and rains...
nothing can compare to making pizza-dough:
well, apart from making mint choc-chip ice-cream...
or synthesising esters in a chemical laboratory...
or synthesising polyester...
the event horizon on that ***** of an experiment:
ha ha... two liquids... and you're just pinching
the "good stuff" from the two liquids not mixing...

like i told one coworker: i rather enjoy listening
to music when i fall asleep...
but... but.
if it starts raining? and i'm about to fall asleep?
the music is turned off and i fall into a lullaby
of a symphony of necessary tears...
some people would tell me that there's no Bach in rain:
i.e. that there's no polyphony that can be ascribed
to rain: i **** right disagree...
that's like saying the sound of the sea is the same
as the sound a river generates or for that matter
a lake... or... a foot stepping into a puddle...
or the sound of a waterfall...

it's only a Monday and i'm already exited for the week ahead...
i couldn't wait for today because i knew i would
be recharging... father's lunch for tomorrow?
sweet peppers and sliced iceberg salad as the base...
on top? pancetta, strawberries,
goat's cheese... figs... with a balsamic glaze dressing...
tomorrow? Khedra didn't appreciate my ****** outgrowths...
she told me, strictly: your kissing is prickling me...
i agreed... my moustache is too long...
i ought to know better... it becomes half a bother
and a bother fully to boot when my moustache
"wets itself" when i take a sip of ms. amber's metaphorical
**** juices...
of course i'm still growing the FU MANCHU...
upon strict orders of the Turk... my love-patch needs
to be as long as my actual beard... and my beard needs
to hide my entire neck...

so tomorrow... i'm excited about visiting my Turkish barber
and getting a trim...
that's tomorrow...
Thursday? i'm off to the brothel to ****... simple as
1 + 1 = 2... i'll do the West Ham shift, finish at 10:30 and
then get my silly ***** wet...
maybe have a *******, maybe not...
i'm paying back a debt... i already stashed half of it
(£200) in my writing desk... i'll take out £200 more tomorrow...
a ******* Lynyrd Skynyrd sing-along
when you're debt free and only working on a debt-system
without any credit... i never understood
the point of the credit system...
why, would, you, use, credit?
why, spend, money, you, don't, have?
after working level 5 at Wembley... for that... tribute
concert for Taylor Hawkings... the managers asked me...
do you suffer from vertigo?!
which vertigo?!
the height vertigo?! didn't i tell you that i used
to be a roofer?! i must have...

height vertigo? yeah... i sometimes have this wild "idea"
in my head when i'm standing at a decent amount of height...
my legs start trembling, i start to grip some barrier...
some stable object... why? i start thinking about jumping
down! that's my height "vertigo": i start thinking that:
just perhaps i have a parachute or an exoskeleton!
although i have another "vertigo": it's a monetary "vertigo"...
i hate to be in debt... i never spend on credit...
either i have the money and spend it...
or i don't have the money and, ergo: don't spend it...
i abhor monetary "vertigos"...
     of course i think about money...
some people are geologists... some people are economists...
it's not that hard to confuse the two,
equating: pebbles = coins...
after all... what are coins? if not peanuts... certainly not
peanuts... then most certainly pebbles:
nuggets of copper with insignia:
"things" of "value" that are only allocated value
because someone said so:
like the usual critique of religion... it's all man-made...
sure... and economy is also man-made...
i abhor gold: i could never don a gold ring on my fingers...

sure... press some gold into a circle...
slap a pretty face like that of ol' Lizzy on it! hey presto!
"value"... otherwise, what?
mind you: a tickling on my legs...
it finally started raining... a spider was made into
a... a... banana-boat man...
escaping conflict of rain... i picked him up from
my tickled leg... put him on my hand...
dropped him off on my private library's shelf...
on... level 3... the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam...
i should get some flies for him at some point...

eh... spiders... flies... foxes... it's not like they're
exotica that certain women like...
i just figured it out... the men women choose to mate
with... oh! it's so certainly most necessary
for the men to have "sleeves"... yeah... at least one
hand covered in tattoos! women love men with
sleeves... the only "tattoos" are on my brain...
but i've witnessed the aesthetic of reproduction...
on the sly... the men with sleeves get to...
oh this one dude... i could "hear" his testosterone being slurped
up when he was giving the duties of daddy
with the buggy watching over his 2 week old babe...
or that guy two doors down...
mate! you're ******! why? you mother-in-law
is coming to see you 5 times a day! you're living about
20 metres from her! you're ****** mate!
me? i have ms. amber and philosophy for company!
i don't think i could talk to a woman: "privately"
outside a specified environment...
sure... women try... we talk on shifts...
if i have to be cold and exacting: exclusive...
hell... this one manager tried it with me today...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
so i replied to his "ha ha": fair enough...
i'll be more EXCLUSIVE next time...
      
                     i know that they employ complete air-heads...
retards... and they are licesened as security "guards":
i was telling my coworker: i'm really reluctant to get
the "baddge"... for (1) the hours are longer...
for (2) the pay is not much greater...
for (3) i only want to do this part-time,
don't get me wrong... it's great... but it's only great
when i say it's great... not when "management"
tells me it's "great"....
there's probably a point (4) and a point (5)...
but... ah... whatever...

hmm... it's back to Andrew Lloyd Webber
and the Cats musical lyrics,
coupled with the 13th Warrior transcript...
between
            Ahmed íbn Fahdlan íbn...
  and Herger... íbn this íbn that... name? IBN...
ha ha... that's like with cats...
Quorus "íbn" AZAEL "íbn" AZRAEL "íbn"
RYCERZ ZAKUTY-ŁEB....
   i.e. knight-mutton-headed...
a mutton-headed-"knight"...
                 chained-head... i too thought that
cats ought to be by the fireplace when it rains...
this one? prefers the company of the activities' of dogs...
i wish i owned a dog... instead?
i own a cat with an invisible leash...
he doesn't go far... i wish i owned a dog for the simple
reason that he might eat what i ate: letft-overs...

but i can't wait for Wednesday... the woman doing
my mother's nails called up: she's having trouble with her
1 year old toddler...
it was supposed to be a Saturday for my mother
getting her nails done...
i just sat there...
she can do Wednesday... but she has to drop off her
autistic older girl and come with "that" BAHOR
(crying baby) to a manicure and pedicure session...
but the baby is a RUGRAT... a little DEMON...
ooh! ooh!
me me! me me!
i just heard that there might be an issue...
i jumped in my head: hit the imaginary ceiling
then came back down (no glass)... i can do it!

come to think of it... cats are predictable creatures...
why? they're changeless...
but babies?! oh wow! it's like i'm back
in a chemistry lab... but instead of dealing
with potent substances... i'm dealing
with the "non-existence" of a soul!
i love it! i love it more than slapping prostitutes
riding me while they slap me in the face
and i slap them in the ***...
that's not true... the only girl that ever slapped me
in the face was Ilona... a Russian rich girl poor boy's wet-dream...
Khedra slapped me in the more appropriate place
while admiring my chest and stomach hair...
pinching my *******...

i'm going to have the time of my life on Wednesday...
i'll be baby-sitting! what's wrong with baby-sitting!
at worsst and at best she'll be pulling at my beard
and i'll be reversing the "talking parrot" sounds
of mimic... i'll be clucking... she'll be clucking back...
i'm too STEM orientated to think about life
subjectively... i'll be a male with a baby in my arms
on Wednesday... and a ******* in my arms
on a Thursday...

of course i'm going to take a picture!
i love babies... it will be so unlike petting a cat...
but it will be like petting a cat...
but unlike a cat: babies are forever unpredictable...
i'll slow down on drinking the "amber juice":
why? i want to have some fun with a baby...
i hope we can do whatever it necessary to
not relate... like the memory of my great-grandfather
in the kindergarten... him as a shadow
playing the big piano and me playing the toy piano...

MALVINA... that's the BAMBINO'S name...
the first girl i ever fell in love with:
i must have have been 6.... she was this albino blonde...
and her name was MALVINA...
this is going to be such a trip (if it happens)...
she's going to be pulling at my beard...
i'll be looking into her eyes
of disorientation...
thank god... she's not mine...
i can gladly keep watch of children that don't belong
to me... more willingly than you think...
i couldn't... some ideas need brushing up on...
i need to keep an eye on those...
but... from time to time?
if i get to become a baby-sitter?
i'll be a baby-sitter...
it's a welcome alternative to having to please
prostitutes...

hmph!
perhaps i'm an arrogant "****"... today i walked to
the local saying good-afternoon to one old woman...
saying another hello
to: hello Matthew... hello Matthew...
we grabbed each other's hands like in the 1950s
movies... when two Roman noblemen greet each
other... i.e. shook arms instead of hands...
we pulled the left hand on top of the hands
shaking: so? the four-hand-greeting...

there's something special about acquiring the "familial":
locus orientation that 20th century cosmopolitan
existentialism simply missed...
i can't wait for Wednesday... twice: thrice better than
sleeping with prostitutes... a sample of fatherhood...
i just... eh... what can you do?
it's not up to me... is it?
i can't exactly make women choose what's
to be chosen... if they chase after idiots.. idiotic times...
i came to one single mother once...
the one that "thought" she smelled alcohol on me...
i came back to her:
with homemade wine: cloudy... so? i chose
Franziskaner Hefe Weissbier...
you, girl, are going to drink my homemade:
cloudy wine... i'll drink...
a coorporaate cloudy beer with you...
single mum... her son's name? Friedrich...
i read his poem out-loud to him...
i also brought around a homemade banana loaf...
***** wasn't buying the myth...
oh well...  a guy comes round on a bicycle:
he has a banana loaf... homemade wine (cloudy)...

there's this much of love i am willing to give!
beyond that... ON YOUR, *******, WAY!
there's no point!
you've been hurt, i've been hurt... no!
i'm happy to just deal with a woman who needs
baby-sitting... doing my mother's nails...
needing someone to take take of her baby...
i'll do! i'll do! i'll do it!

it's ******* sad... for however much you want
to love: you're told to love less...
and by the same amount of "less":
you're asked to love "more"!

to love as yourself: you're never going to love
yourself as there might be a male "self"
to speak of: you ******* idiot!
you're a ******* toothpick in the waterfall!
i'm not saying "man-up": i'm just saying...
there are reality checks in place...
why do you think all the grandmas are *******
grandmas beginning and ending with?
where are the men?
in, a place, allocating, the most, bothered, men...
their... safeguard... from... interacting... with...
women....
me? i like to be the mediator...
that's me... between ******* and toddler...
eh... "ring baron" of a woman of: "beached whale"
value... what?!

that's Wednesday though... toddler Malvine is
here on Wednesday...
tomorrow's a Tuesday... that's a trip to Istanbul
for a beard trim...

i lost my beard-envy when i heard this one
Arab colt say: i love your beard, sir!
sir?! beard? i have a beard?!
i need to trim my mustache to kiss her in a way
she wants to be kissed...
but a beard?
i can't wait for Malvina... the toddler...
i want those:
chubby-bubbly-bub-bub-cheeks pressed
against mine... pretending to be a father
knowing that i'm not: a father...

i want cheese on top of the toast!
i want to keep all the Talmud secrets,
i want to keep the secrecies of babies
akin to the alignment of women.

p.s. and i have to agree with Bukowski in his
wisened post-mortem publication about
"going all the way"... there's no battle worth fighting
except with oneself... going all the way...
writing into the night... watching a lightning
storm: hearing no thunder...
thunder eluded me yesterday: there was only
lightning and then the glorious fall of rain...
in his own words:
and you will: you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame fire...

i am alone: i am not alone... i'm writing this post-scriptum
during the day because i felt that the night
was too beautiful to waste it upon completing
this "little effort"...

i just can't wait for tomorrow...
i'll take a picture of the two of us on the grass...
hopefully i'll get her mother's approval to jump
into the hot-tub with her... my little BAMBINO...

hmm... why is it that babies are as generic as old people?
when we're born we have universal needs...
when we're at the closure of our mortality:
it's all the same for either man and woman...
babies look alike: whether male or female,
the same is true for old people...
it's only in our prime that we seek out diverged
***-based needs...
men want particular things
as women want particular things...
men crave solace in aloneness...
women despise any talk of solance
equating aloneness with loneliness...

   what happened to the inquisitive old men
of antiquity akin to Socrates?
why have men not bothered to inquire about the intellect
when all their youthful toils of the body
have been completed? it's so stereotypical
of middle-aged men to assume that philosophy
books ought to be read in old age...
nope... that's completely untrue...
philosophy books ought to be read in a man's
20s... and by the time a man is ripened for old age...
he ought to be able to mix his early reading of philosophy
books (a priori) with his experience of life
(a posteriori)...

but it's not enough to simply say: logic... philosophy...
reason...
the Chinese Taoist sages covered pretty much everything
that modern science: finally caught up with...
what's ontology in Chinese philosophy? XING...
what's inherently me...
no... whatever the current trend is in western thinking:
implosive "western" & "thinking" i will perform the rite
of Pontius Pilate over... i will wash my hands clean
of the whole affair... this pseudo-intellectualism
this... GAME... of "GRAMMAR"...
there are far more interesting categories of words
than simply pronouns... nouns: for a start are more
interesting... how there's very little chance to catch
a diminutive noun in English... hey! that's a start!

you can't say beak (of a bird) in a way that beak:
allocated a diminutive suffix to the noun...
you have to say: little beak...
ah... but in other languages you can do just that!

dziób - beak... the diminutive being?
   dziobek... little beak...
                                             like i explained to this
older Turkish woman i was working a shift with
(god i fancied her, only later did i find out that she was
Turkish... that doe with fear in her eyes...
i still fancy her...) when she asked me about my accent...
i told her: to have an Essex accent you have to be born
in Essex... she lives in Kent and the Essex lads are
horrid to her... but i told her: since i'm bilingual...
there's this natural buffer zone for me to not have
a localised accent... i can have an generic: cosmopolitan
London accent... but even then... i'm a chameleon...

ha! to think that i didn't ask for permission to **** other
girls: Khedra actually demanded it!
she told me: you have to try all of them...
her ******* habbit and harking at non-existent phlegm
from her throat and nose...
well: good that i don't like *******...
enough of caffeine and nicotine is just about the same
for me...
the moment she mentioned having a *******
i was like... this second time ought to be better...
the first time i wasn't prepared...
i'll juggle the finances and take out more next time...
first time? with all that ****** changes i was sort
of disorientated...

but i can't wait for tomorrow... why?
i'll be babysitting! i'll have a BAMBINO to look after...
this gorgeous woman is coming over to
do my mother's nails...
she wouldn't have come because her bambino
is so much hassle these days...
as my mother was talking i was erratically nodding:
please bring her! please bring her!
i won't be drinking too much tonight...
i need to wake up at 7am and make an important
phone-call come 8am... then i'll wait...

seriously... that's the best dichotomy of: the life
of the other in your hands...
from slapping and biting prostitutes to then ensuring
my large hands take to tender care of a baby...
ooh! i'm sizzling with giggles and burps and farts
and stomach gurgling sensations...
i'll put on some vinyl record for her...
i'll focus a bright light on my little Frankenstein...
i'll bring down the word from on high into
her ears and then through her mouth
i'll try to steal the first word from her mother's
attempt at communication...
she already performed a mimic of me when i started clucking
my tongue... she clucked back:
the cluck of a horse buckling on cobblestones...

i'll have my little Frankenstein experiment...
i'll work around words and settle for onomatopoeias
first... i'll imitate sounds that humans are allowed
to make... it will be like going to a brothel:
but better... better still: it won't be my child...
it will be someone else's child...

come to think of it... it almost feels like that scene
from Game of Thrones... when a baby is brought before
the Night King... it will be such a welcome break from
the already idiosyncratic, unique character of my cats...
i can't change them: not that i can change a cat's ontology...
or for that matter being able to change Quarus...
ibn ****** ibn Azreal...
                 but i can travel to the moon and Antartica with
this baby... i can revel in leaving my first footprint
in the psyche of this child: not mine...
grant me the bare minimum of at least 3 hours
with this loose canon of an **** that will probably ****
the entire length of the Thames' river...

nothing to do today, cleaned the house yesterday,
there's still plenty of left-over pizza...
i worked the entire weekend... even yesterday
i didn't drink that much... but my body went into shutdown
relax mode... i went to bed at 12am and got up at 12pm...
Show Me Love crushed me...
walking around so many women fried my brain...
the moment one approached me for a handshake
and a wave another approached me to dance with her
then another approached me to "face the mirror"
and make me smile while doing a mirror-wriggling dance...
not even in the brothel did i see so much:
ripe, flesh...
by the end i was exhausted like a Solomon might...
3 years later... one for each night... and he still didn't
manage to make the rounds of his harem...
so? well... back in the day they didn't have ******...
so? he asked for a few willing men to be castrated...
he cut their ***** off and said: here... be their playthings...
otherwise female homosexuality will not allow me
their arousal upon my return!

well... sometimes a little bit of bitterness does seep into me,
it comes in, but: it does take off its shoes,
it asks me whether it can smoke a cigarette,
it does all the very formal things i except certain states
of mind to allow me to "challenge"... it only comes
when a woman ponders my state: why aren't you still
married?
i swollow the "pill" and in turn ponder...
hmm... why? why?                       hmm... why?
isn't it obvious?
                             i could swear it was obvious!

the best conversations i ever had were with myself:
on paper... akin to this...
the cost of living is not worth putting too many hours
into working...
working is far better than stealing...
but i'm also not going to follow the route of rich people:
how do rich people get rich?
through loop holes that poor people can't navigate...
like my neighbour (who killed my cat)
she only own an off-license shop...
   but she... blah blah... she had three "bulgaries"
in the past 4 years... some that happened at noon...
some in the middle of the night: me? i'm usually perched on
my windowsill until 4am... i saw jack-****...
evidently: a scam...
                  
born into a Catholicism: yet i have retained all the Protestant
traits of honesty... even i once exclaimed
that England "used" to be a high-trust society...
it still might be: but in London you better have
double-standards... esp. with the Somalis taking breaks
on shifts... some you can oil-up toward your
persuasions about work by managing to
give them free food... otherwise... Sisyphus at his toil...

until tomorrow Malvina... until tomorrow my temp.
joy of a Bambino.

(similar physiological phenomena
affected yours truly
exactly one year ago),
yet nevertheless hunger,
not only for victuals
but peace on Earth
and goodwill to all men,
women, children, animals,
plants, et cetera

Mine corporeal complex edifice
unleashes convulsions of anxiety
less so regarding mine kampf,
one paltry existence among bajillions
of **** sapiens, but rather
indiscriminate violence of war.

Wanton aggression unleashed
upon defenceless civilians
caught in the crosshairs
of abhorrent, indignant, repugnant...
pillaging, ******, trespassing,
violating, xing sacrosanct boundaries
against humble people.

Said encroachment upon Ukraine
major reason lack of appetite
prevails to savor even smallest bite
unlike Pavlov's dog,
I neither salivate nor excite
at prospect (parking) body
against table not low but fahrenheit
unfair punishment fates did indict,
whereby yours truly decreed
to suffer wraith inflicted

akin to ghastly revengeful Jacobite
asitia struck with vengeance
sucker punched pit of stomach
with furious dog forsaken might
unsavory predicament figuratively
eating away me passion
to relish comestibles day and night,
hence feeble effort to craft poem quite
lame rhyming for no reason right?

Yours truly cannot remember,
how many days, weeks, months... ago
elapsed, whereby with voraciousness I ate
(above mentioned statement veracious -
food for thought) I plainly communicate
hoop fully buzzfeeding, dishing out quandary

in fortified effort to elucidate
thee dear anonymous reader great
if newfound (albeit tenuous) intrigue
awoke courtesy mine artful ruse to initiate
reciprocity, cuz regret iz the stealer of joy
thus verbally athletic, cryptic, enigmatic,

generic, idiotic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic
quixotic, solipsistic (ha) troubadour
who heartily hales within
southeastern keystone-state
dares himself to reach out across cyberspace
in an cautiously optimistic effort to mitigate

and extend his metaphorical (albeit empty) plate
maintaining netiquette, an amorphous,
yeah flirtatious nebulous groovy savoir faire,
which mine body, mind, spirit triage
suddenly seems restoration of natural craving
toward sustenance doth oscillate.

What relief long starved taste buds to appease
cuz methought (courtesy obsessive compulsive
worst case scenario catastrophizing)
one garden variety guy
acquired some generic disease
A deep sigh of relief he dryly heaves!