Yadda......yadda......yadda
he's dying of loneliness
Go listen to the news
They're Nine million people lonely in the country
You're all known for your coldness
Some don't even know their neighbours
You abandon your parents when they get old
Put them away in Retirement homes
when was the last time you saw your elderly mum
when was the last time you called your sister
Thank God for the GRASS being the scapegoat used by crooks
To illustrate community mobbing let us all gang up together
Now you're hugging the Asians and the blacks are your best friends

yadda......yadda......yadda
come join the club we are all mates now
against that outsider grass we welcome all
the ***** ******* are molesting women oh it's just
to make grass envious cause we've stopped him loving
talk to me I hate you no more because grass is more hated
no more bullying you just join us and help us harass that grass
don't trouble that foreign shopkeeper we now want him to join
welcome Muslim brothers and sisters come join us
we now like you cause we have somebody else to hate
hey Mr ugly come here for a hug just make sure its in front of grass
you my loner friend be lonely no more you are now a club member
you Somalian, you Ethopian, you chinese, you Ugandan no matter
everyone is friends no more hassle just hate the grass as much as us

yadda......yadda......yadda
this is politics we fool and fool you all
when we need you you are our best friends
we show you our commonality and bring you into the fold
just make sure you do as you're told and don't grass like grass
we will give you opportunities to make grass jealous
we will forge a grapevine from here to Kathmandu and beyond
we will teach you hate and poison your stinking minds
we will imprison you and make you our slaves to serve us
just make sure you give that grass a hard time and come for a prize
this is all our secret and your minds belongs to us gangstalking crew
make him lonely make him friendless and show viva democracy
You are all simpletons and that's how you will stay in our pockets
this is a union of morons by morons for morons and the crooks win
yadda......yadda......yadda

whatever, some are of higher births
some are from the lower echelons
the difference is obvious hence the complex
hence the yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda, yadda
so sorry you can't get over yourselves and your start in life
still shows in all the things you do, can't take the pain out of you
sorry but I still live better than you but I don't mind giving you lifts
yeah! yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda yadda, yadda,
Ah...the poor pale face is so sad and angry, I hate that black boy
Ah...poor pale face stop feeling so bad, just go get a proper education
we cheat all the rest for you, you are one of ours, stop feeling inferior
Don't let them see you are inferior and uneducated and insecure and weak and stupid and racist, do not let them see you, hide, hide, hide

We have a cat named Ben who doesn’t wear a collar.
I know a saint named Ben whose picture's on a medal.


I wear it for safety, a bigger one we hang above the door for
superstitious reasons like a black cat that isn't ours
walking across our path, Ben is ours but Ben is brown not black
and Ben won't wear a collar so he stays indoors.

     St Benedict of Nursia the patron saint of lots of things,
     of remedies for poisoning, of evil witchcraft,  suffering,
     a patron saint of lots of things, of aggies, engineers,
     spelunkers and those with fever near the gates of death.

     He is the patron saint of gall stones but not kidney stones
     if so his medal would have saved me from significant pain,
     but still I wear his medal when I go out to keep myself
     protected from whatever it is he protects us against.

     before he became a good luck charm, before he was a medal
     he lived in a cave in Italy in the year 400 a.d. where for
     three years the townsfolk brought him food to eat and finally
     talked him into coming out. No, not that kind of coming out
     he wasn’t gay, he was a priestly hermit who was celibate.

     They put him in charge of a monastery when no one else
     wanted the job, but when he made the rules that still stick today
     they didn’t want to listen so they tried to poison him twice
     both unsuccessful. This is where he gets the nod for sainthood.

     Divine intervention saved the day, a raven stole the
     poisoned bread and a spasm smashed the poisoned cup.
     if they wanted him to go away they could have asked him  
     but I guess they needed a saint, someone to martyr, so
     he went back to his cave and was promptly forgotten

     until the Connecticut witch trials of 1647 when a captured
     witch confessed that her powers were contained by a
     conspicuous medal that she’d never seen before mounted
     over doorways, and she heard the whispers of the townsfolk say
     the medal was the medal of a saint they called St. Benedict.

I can personally attest that the medal is quite unique with
Latin inscriptions on both the front and the back. On one side
of the medal he stands and holds the holy rules, at his feet
a raven and a broken cup. An inscription on the medal reads:

            “May we at our death be fortified by his presence”

Flip it over and you’ll see:

               C
          C  S   S
       N D S M D
          P  M   B
               L

“May the holy cross be my light”
          “Let not the dragon be my overlord”
                      “This is the cross of Father Benedict”
                             “yadda   yadda   yadda”

Along the outer edge it looks like this, strangely similar
to a Ouija board.

                             PAX
                    B                    V
                V ­                           R
               I                    ­             S
                L                             N
                 Q                          S  
                     M                 V  


PAX  for Peace

The rest is this:
“Begone Satan yadda yadda yadda
          for evil is what you prefer yadda yadda
              so drink your own poison yadda”

350 some years since its inception and the medals popularity
still flourishes.  I reach down and finger the medal beneath
my t-shirt and I realize what the strangeness feels like.

It feels like witchcraft.

I guess I’ll wait and see if anything happens
before I pass judgment.

I hang it near our bed at night and while
we sleep

our brown cat Ben likes to bat it around.

.wow, i never thought it would ever be possible,
i'm sorry, i have no empathy for these youtuber "creators",
any idiot can regurgitate the news,
venture into vulture journalism,
  then again: gone are the days of closely associated
with people like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein...
they are really gone: what the hell was gamer-gate
compared to watergate? gate after gate,
and all i'm hearing is response videos,
it should have never come to this,
whereby journalists are as untrustworthy as politicians,
and of what remains, come the saturday and
the sunday editions, when the petty bourgeoisie
come out of the woodworks of a week,
album reviews, book reviews, t.v. reviews,
restaurant reviews: real, real journalism,
all the grit you'd expect from a warzone...
           journalists forgot they were not kindred spirits
of politicians: but immediacy historians...
the front-line history chroniclers...
i find... these days, esp. these days...
    you know why i like heidegger so much,
and forget the fact that he joined the **** party?
in 1938 he was already disillusioned by it...
so the ad homine fallacy bites the dust...
   even a **** deservers a redemption...
but i find that these days, of all days...
   man, as a historiological creature has to bow
before the unshakeable facets of the biological man,
esp. in the english speaking world...
    in terms of history and biology:
     history has all the fun stories,
and a sensible "concern" for time,
   well... if not "concern" then at least a bearbable
time-frame...
                  after all, i am the one who said:
all the great deserts of the world,
akin to sahara? they were once great
mountain ranges... you already know where
to look between a mountain range akin to the alps
and a desert... bound to h'america...
   monument valley: utah...
  a mountain becomes a rock after a while...
while the desert expands...
    ayers rock (uluru)... but monument valley (utah)
is a transition period between a mountain range
and a desert, if we're going to stand outside
of all space and time, and look back in...
we have plenty of time to catch-up on...
           just like i believe that black holes
are actually 2-dimensional objects:
   that spin really fast, giving an impression
of them being 3-dimensional objects:
as usually represented by a gravity dip associated
with them pulling matter into themselves...
i think that black holes are paradoxes...
since how can a 2-dimensional object
actually exist in a 3-dimensional space?
   that depends on the size of the "3-dimensional"
object / space... the universe is a medium,
it's defined as a "space" but to me...
      it's beyond space... it's only space on the grounds
of isolated time, 365 days,
the time and space it takes for the earth
to orbit the sun... which is an isolated example,
outside? well: there's atmosphere on earth,
outside? vacuum!
who's going to prove my theory wrong?
               not anyone in my lifetime -
besides the point with these youtube content
"creators": where credit is due, credit is due,
but once might have cared for their vulture
journalism... two old farts akin to felix (black pigeon
speaks) and sargon of akaad talking about how:
the youth are congregating to youtube to listen
to music: that's what i've always done...
  i discovered these youtube "creators" by accident,
i just wanted my jukebox back, man,
i wanted my algorithm back, my imprint back,
now that the devil's dozen scenario took hold
of the platform: 1 video playing, 12 back-ups...
and they're all the same, unrelated, *******...
        talk all you want, please, just give back
my algorithm imprint, where i can discover new music...
again... i never thought i'd see another
compilation video, 173 videos bound to one...
and, mind you... after finding about 6 googlewhacks
(googlewhack? when you use the sort of
language that provides you with only one search
result on the behemoth platform of billions
of results, 1 is grand, but 6? it's becoming too
predictable)...
                        so here's what i found
   (band - song):

wooly mammoth - mammoth bones / kyuss - space cadet,
rainbows are free - last supper / grand magus -
                                                mountain of power,
zed - lies / om - cremation chant I & II,
    smoke - hallucination / weird owl - white hidden fire,
orchid - son of misery / witch - seer,
               unida - you wish / black mountain - old fangs,
b.r.m.c. - ain't no easy way /
              jack daniels overdrive - ****** to death,
shrinebuilder - blind for all to see,
                   datura - mantra / the heavy eyes - voytek,
the machine - infinity / clutch - the regulator,
   colour haze - mountain / maligno - son of tlalocan,
dozer - twilight sleep / gomer pyle - albino rattlesnake,
blockback - dead mans blues / greenleaf - witchcraft tonight,
cactus jumper - right way / borracho - bloodsucker,
alabama thunderpussy - motor ready,
                    earthless - sonic power,
my brother the wind - death and beyond,
   zaphire oktalogue - carrion fly / siena root - reverberations,
unida - slaylina / pothead - toxic / sungrazer - mountain dusk,
   rotor - costa verde / blizaro - it's in the lighthouse,
planet of zeus - woke up dead,
     kongh - pushed beyond / ufomammut - smoke,
high on fire - to cross the bridge,
              the secret - bell of urgency,
      unida - wet pussycat / dozer - big sky theory,
cavity - chloride / brutus - swamp city blues,
the grand astoria - something wicked this way comes,
sasquatch - the judge / pharaoh overlord - skyline,
baby woodrose - love comes down / kamni - **** of satan,
lay with me - the flying eyes / cowboys & aliens  -
                                                out of control,
sons of otis - liquid jam / hainloose - recipe,
    ridge - rancho relaxo / bongripper - ****** sutherland,
skraeckoedland - cactus / grails - satori,
    lo-pan - chicken itza / five horse johnson - people's jam,
blind dog - don't ask me where i stand,
     wiht - orderic vitalis / hisko detria - nothing happens,
liquid sound company - leage for spiritual discovery lives,
   goatsnake - black cat bone / gandhi's gunn - rest of the sun,
the egocentrics - wave / propane propane - it's alright,
heliotropes - ribbons / mother mars - price you pay,
che - the knife / annimal machine - condenado,
   earth - tallahassee / the whirlings - delirio,
orchid - heretic / maeth - horse funeral,
siena root - rasayana / graveyard - longing,
           tia carrera - hell / hainloose - recipe,
      burner - five pills (and a bottle of whiskey),
dala sun - guilty for ****** / vulgaari - lie,
        slo burn - muezli / stonehelm - zombie apocalypse,
smallman - evolution / spiders - fraction,
         shakhtyor - e. jaspers / earthmass - lunar dawn,
evoke the lords - dregs / colour haze - silent,
     sutrah - el septimo viaje...
  

who are "these" people,
who: "supposedly" live for the future...
they always cite it,
as the one motivational
momentum of the present -
it's as if they've never seen
a bull itch the ground
with its front hoofs -
   imitating building up momentum
before a charge...
or how a slingshot,
or how a bow works...
   to these people,
the ******* sideways movement
of a bow against a violin...
sometimes...
      you do not retreat into
the past, to hide, to amount
to nostalgia...
     sometimes
the only reason for the reflexive
affirmation, confined to maxims
and aphorism, nay: even poems!
is to look back...
     to reap what was once
sowed, rather than sow blindly,
and reap: what no one wants
to reap...
    drunk? getting there...
       it felt so relaxing paying off
a 100 / 250 part of a debt
i owe her...
            while buying a russian
standard liter,
   asking for a 100 cash-back
of the supermarket cashier,
- the limit is 50,
   but if you buy something else,
i can give you another 50...
- oh... ok...
   so me went to and took a bottle
of shveedish cider...
   rekorderlig...
   mind you? the swedish,
what they perfected fermenting
better than what the the irish claim
to fame is?
    sorry... magners:
               irish? stick to the guinness...
(it's actually the only cerveza
i'd go into an english pub to
drink from the tap... bottled? canned?
not the same)...
     but with such swedish delights
such as the above mentioned,
  ålska and K  ö   nigsberg
                            *œ?
no competition... the suede(s) just
do one thing grand...
    cider...
- what was i talking about?
  ah... the "dreaded" past...
     the people who say:
  but you can't live out a life,
   holding onto a private past,
a memory...
    so... these other ******* were
allowed to implant a false
past, unrelated to me,
teaching me whether it was
Newton, or Leibniz who first
invented the infinitesimal calculus
method?
                i'm betting on Leibniz...
after all... he took the position
of a ******* librarian...
   and he wasn't buried with pomp
& circumstance at Westminster Abbey...
sometimes...
         one person can't have it all...
but if the education system
is a system that is indicative for
the erosion of memory, esp. private
matters... and juggernauts in
with these selective rubrics of science
and history...
fair enough the basic
implants: numerical arithmetic,
and lettering arithmetic -
    and then... lessons in mental
entertainment... when applied
           to menial labour...
memory is: supreme...
          i can't give my memory up...
that's what: killer proteins
eating the fat tissue of the brain
like starvation in reverse
        of a case of Alzheimer's?
memory is: cameo cinema -
    however distorted it might be,
although i beg to differ on
whether time per se,
  is not the better psychedelic
component
when coupled with memory -
esp. the cinematic aspect of memory...
there was never a "living" in
the past -
      there was a point about memory
to sharpen the edges of
    "dasein"... all speculation and
questions regarding consciousness,
as championed through
a chimpanzee's *** are somehow
pointless:
    given there's a higher tier of
conceptualization -
   working from dasein...
            hierjetzt -
      or in english?             presence...
- because why would i treat
a personal memory,
like some inorganic entity of
a schooling system,
under Catholic measures,
  that made it necessary to include
Pythagoras... but not Horace?
that's inorganic memory...
and unless i turn into some
inorganic entity -
   the organic aspect of my psyche:
my past, my cameo cinema?
   that's going to be a leech,
attached to me...
  and i'm not going to give it up,
just like... when i walk about
my door, and enter the england
that i know on the peripheries...
i'll speak the lingua franca -
     but with my privacy?
    you'd better cut my tongue off
before i stop speaking
my western slavic heritage...
    and it pains me...
when certain groups of immigrants...
don't know the POINT
where immigration becomes
insensible... self-lacerating...
           i once hated their approach...
now i just pity them...
anyone ****** can juggle
     two oranges rather than three...
p.s. old school cure for a cold?
forget the pills...
   glass of warm milk,
  an egg yolk,
     and a good scratch of butter...
  (on the rare occasion,
  milk infused with garlic)
mixed together...
before bedtime...
  if the ****** won't sweat out
the bacteria during the night...
     well... stick to the synthetics...
i'm pretty sure i know why i drink...
certainly not to: PARTY PARTY PARTY...
i always aim for
the one safety net of "pharmacology"...
ssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

p.s. so much for children loving their
parents...
        in vitro and the whole
m.g.m. debacle:
so, sweet little *******,
       no *******, no chance for your
for a quickie satellite launch date from
Tehran, under all the weight of
monotheism turned secular...
christianity: the only "monotheism"
with overt tinged of polytheism,
lutheran, baptist, catholic, orthodox...
just today i opened my door twice...
once to a confused curry house delivery man:
did you order some food:
i too replied with a confused look
and the word: huh?! no.
then a black woman with a a white ol' granny
came by with a leaflet...
the jehovah's witnesses were on my trail...
lucky of my grandfather,
   the profanity brigade of the hebrew name
i will not dare utter came by...

  and if you have lived a good enough life:
memory? memory beats hollywood
technicolour and CGI...
at least in the cinema of memory i always
get to play the cameo (role)...

oh i get the youtube creators:
   living with his parents... still. aged 33...
funny that i don't mind them,
since they're getting older they're settling
into their solispsism,
        annoying as ****, but i stand them,
thank god the protruding caduceus veins
on my phallus protected me from
a circumcision...
  i can ******* like a girl with a web-cam...
no scented candles:
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones...
the toilet, simultaneously masaging my ****
and prostate...

men were not exactly supposed to derive
pleasure from ***: they were,
supposed to give pleasure,
and in giving pleasure to one outlet,
they were subscribed to finding out what
best pleases them: ergo?
women would always derive more of
the people from *** than men would ever...
*** is not a story of bragging about
a harem... the woman lies flat...
the man pumps her...
after all... she is the one burdened
to carry a child, why wouldn't she be
the one deriving more pleasure from *** than
a man could ever?
72 virgins! ha ha!
   ah ha ha!
             what's the ratio?
   last time i checked... a 3 hole caravan...
of a woman's worth...
   mouth, ******, ****... and man?
only two points of entry, well...
"entry"...
                    seems that the tomatoe,
really is a fruit, but is treated like a vegetable
nontheless!
homosexuality in the 1960s...
william burroughs in Tangiers...
                    when Islam was quiet radical...

well... i cook, i clean...
                what are my other options of continuing
to write and living the ed gein "lifestyle",
i tried getting social housing in england,
but, i'm not a somali with two wives and a dozen
kids...
              rent, in london?
extortion...
                   housing shortage...
                 well there's me hating my parents,
the outside world just needs to see
an ed gein imitation...
               or there's me living off acorns
in the woods, or rummaging on the streets,
making the N25 bus from oxford st. to ilford
my own personal mobile hotel as a homeless
man in london...

   i think it's time to succumb to your
parents prejudices, if only for the jokes,
no point in making ethical high judgements
to fit into a zeitgeist narrative surrounding
yourself with people: you'd never eat a meal with...
that's how i define the highest form of respect:
if i'll eat with you: implies that i respect you...
i drink alone...
a high school fwend once thought he could
bribe me with his company,
that i "had to" drink with him...
      no... not really...
          i much prefer drinking by myself...
these days you're not expected to honour your
mother and your father,
i.e. make them proud...
               honour is a double-edged sword...
just don't be ashamed of having
a mother or a father...
not that hard: given western divorce rates...
i.v.f., frozen eggs... yadda yadda yadda...
lucky me in having went to university...
oh... really? so much cooler in a cosmopolitan
environment with your contemporary
flat-mates?
               get the picture?
                 paying rent while literally living
in a diguised cardboard box?
i can't help the fact that poetry doesn't pay...
that there are economic factors beyond
my control in play...
   maybe if i was the grandson of my parents,
born in england, and not elsewhere,
there would be some sort of + leverage...
for a bricks and mortar start-up...
plus... i hoard...
         books and music...
                     mind you:
neither of my parents spoke english as their
mother tongue...
  neither did i...
they didn't teach me this tongue:
i had to teach this language by myself:
for myself...
           aged 8: thrown into the deep end
of the pool: now swim ******, swim!

i just feel sorry for the immigrant parents
who gave birth to their children into the *****
of the land they immigrated to...

two days ago i found a heartbreak,
a romanian couple, with a child...
the father was stubborn in teach his daughter
his / her native sprechen...
romanian... but she was already speaking
perfect antithesis of accent kindergarten english...
and almost non-responsive to her tongue
alligned to her biology...
    clearly she was born in england,
but her parents were both romanian...
i've had that conundrum in my head
for a long time...
   what if i married an english girl...
and i was unable to teach my offspring
my native language,
what if i had to silence my native tongue,
"forget" it, or only speak it by myself,
via reading a book in western slavic?
what if the woman i married:
wouldn't see the benefits of bilingualism,
outside of the mainstream economic
mantra of ensuring your children
learn either german or mandarin or arabic?
that worried me...
          oh believe me, i enjoy my lapses
into english: since i am providing the groundwork...
but in the case of having offspring...
e.g. teaching them the western slavic tongue
so they could speak to their grandparents
(i.e. my parents)...
       even my grandparents lament
the scenarios when a woman would marry
an austrian... and she wouldn't teach
her children her native tongue,
and when the grandchildren would visit their
grandparents... they'd be speaking
a crude variation of braille, morse,
   sign-language: na migi...
               i know that my mother is alive
in me even under this veil of english...
because she's more than the womb,
the genitals of my conception, the breast fed off...
she's also the Atlas of my vocabulary
of the "hiding" tongue beneath this one...

i already knew the "game" was rigged from
the get-go... i've seen how one hindu woman
suffered being married to a scouser...
she never managed to pass on her language
to her children,
she bought a library, thinking her children
would succumb to learning: however poor
they might end up being...
but she was suffocated by the english
tongue of her husband...
and her children didn't express even the most
vague of desires to learn their mutterzunge...

that's what worried me to begin with,
marrying an english woman i was afraid
of the ignorance that someone bilingualism
was en route toward a psychiatrist disorder
i was diagnosed with: schizophrenia...
this anglophonic ignorance still scares me...
like: everyone is expected to speak the revisionist
globalist lingua franca: this anglo lingua...
if i didn't meet a bilingual / polyglot woman,
i'd return to rearing idiotic children...
anglo lingua was only supposed to be a middle-ground,
a "no man's land"...
             a language of trivial economic transfers...
a language primarily orientated around usage:
rather than an ethno-centric basis for "englishness"...
to **** with: god save the queen...
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
                 old scot dragoons': auld lang syne...
those where my forever anthems...
see...
        what gave birth to a jihadi john?
his mother "forgot", his father "forgot":
his "mother" forgot, his "father" forgot to speak
the "ancient" tongue...
there's a point to integration of the immigrant,
an immigrant is a forgetful creature,
an ever pleasing creature...
never to mind himself as an ex-pat...
you ****** forget your mutterzunge...
you'll be speaking in cockney accents
with broken affairs of arabic beheading people
for zombified reasons of grandeour!
*******...
          you, you: you are to blame!
you were so ashamed of your parents that you
delved on honoring them to the point
of thinking giving pride unto them was very
much akin as keeping shame away from
their girdle of the wedlock of your own existence!
death has not made your a martyr...
i guess you deserve those 72 mishaps,
those 72 annoying voices...
and i pray to god that you receive your reward!
i hope that among the 72 you will never find
a chance a repose to find your: self!

integration is one thing,
pandering to the "elites": plebs who think they
are kings among the plebs,
is quiet another...
plebs who go places and think english
is a universal tongue: just because
uncle sam says so...
of those i respect:

y cymraeg: pwy dal eu tafod...
an gàidhlig: cò fhathast bruidhinn an cuid teanga...
i nawet moim: co ma mówić
to nawet tyle: co znaczy tak niewiele!

there are boundaries... learn the customs
of the natives, but ensure you retain the customs
you were born with...
a child, born in a foreign land,
ought to ensure his parents teach him
the words to speak to his grand overseers...
complete immersion,
this cultural abortion,
this cutting of the umbilical chord
from: i have never met a people so
content at having been subjugated outside
the indian sub-continent,
cricket... for ****'s sake...
       as to demand other europeans
to treat them as superiors,
when sitting alongside an englishman...
****-bud-bud, the **** are you on about?!
once again: england has become the circus
for the grounding of what began
with engels and marx...
   wasn't communism born from
engels and marx observing english society?
sure... first experimented en masse in
mongolia... but its origins?

   so of course i had problems finding a suitable
mating partner... i was afraid that my nativ-zunge
would die a slow but solemn death...
that an english bridge would not consider
the worth of a bilingual child, or a polyglot,
or that she would repress the chance of my
"biological continuum nuance" to respond outside
of the anglo lingua refrain of: beside the english language?
there are quiet a few one might want to learn...

it's not easy being a first generation immigrant,
esp. if you moved aged 8, mute as a wolf
to a domesticated dog's barking...
but hey, no jihadi john in me...
           jihadi john should have been raised
bilingual... i wouldn't be the one speaking broken
tourist arabic while beheading someone...
jihadi john spoke tourist arabic...
the dichotomy of the mind to the biological
reality, beside the current, western,
"biological relativism" debate...
      clearly darwinism was "wrong"...
man is, these days, left with neither a biological
reality, nor a historical reality...
              but there is a historical reality:
but it's so knit-&-picky...
come on... philip augustus of the capetian
dynasty?
                 casimir III...
                        jeremi wiśniowiecki...
konrad I of masovia...
                           kuno von lichtenstein...
alles ist gott: und gott ist alles -
  gott mit, uns!

              mit eine leben wert leben:
    erinnerung ist die nur kino
             wert sehen eine film beim;

hell... could be worse:
   i might have translated some latin
of horace into pig-trough comfort food.

i return to these words that are barely
an architectural promise of a house as a mere:
rummaging squatter,
that this will eventually become
scrutinised by eyes beside my own...
well it's not like i rhyme-on-the-cheap...
i've been trying to watch some penny
dreadful episodes:
what would woman do without
the devil; i suppose man tangled with
god is nothing but an obnoxious brat...
the devil of emotions
and their plethora; this belittling god
fiddling with stones and creases
in york oak stand-alones...
                          then it came like
an itch: poached-taming-(of a)-toe...
just a tatty... a humble:
i am pretty sure i saw the letters
prefix a toad somewhere: po-ta-to(e):
ah... there! poached tame toad...
a sputniks for a brainz...
in penny dreadful: john claire
the name of victor frankenstein's monster:
oh dear old god: this continued
exasperation with poetry:
one must live a most unsatisfying life
to cross the rubricon of
old testament anemia:
            i think i admired wordsworth too... -

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...
i will not heed to market emphasis...
(Ꝛ if you might ask:
there's no leg to stand on...
the "R" falls into a turddle -
a tumble: a trill)...

ꝛ - a missing hammer: it would seem...
a sickle my dreading of apparents...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

clamour for the subjective experince...
none of this: hammer to a nail
sort of "magic" that leaves
one... sensibly "ostententious":

a semi-decent poem contra:
a good night's sleep...
always the latter...
   but unlike today:
6am wake... giving blood for
scrutiny - subsequently...
a broad need for 4 hours in...
a makeshift wilderness...
from Hainault Forest
to Havering County Park...

                        i would clearly have
to start all over again...
should i mind reading back into Tironian
notes and what i had expected to find...
it will suffice to mind...
the characters of empress wu...

         國 (guo)

beginning: coming back to bite some back
from a beijing pork belly:
where you'd first have to make caramel
from the sugar dissolved in oil:
before all the wine would care to glisten...

             𤯔 (ren)...

                              in reverse:
ren-guo - people (of) nation...
                      walking past this field:
impromptu: please keep off of field...
that's what i read...
      this was exclusive -
there was not need to denote further...

and this funny oddity:
saying good-morning or a hello
in an environment that's beside...
walking down the street with a stable
hound of anonymity surrounding
crisp grey blockage of: the amass!
yet people are so expecting
a common courtesy to brief you
on a morning: good...
is it? incessantly so! apparently!
switch them to the torment of the cements
and the back-to-basics apathetic crew
is on the counter...
ghost faces...
  but push them far enough to be alone
and into nature:
they pass a stranger and apparently
demand a prompt: hello!

i go into a depth of nature like
i have *** with prostitutes in a brothel:
i want to have as little to do with talking
that i'd loan: smothering someone
to shut up...
i came for the crows the knee-high-hallubaloos
of nonsense that...
i will extract myself to break
fasting to give blood by foraging
some blackberries...

i still prefer the lesser democratic voices...
it's not that robert duncan was going
to be a stand-alone show akin
to gibsberg...
but... my house is currently in disarray...
i'm playing chess by having
a makeshift kitchen in my living room...
i don't even know where the spices
are! but i'll manage
to bake a **** fine moroccan kobhz!

- this little but current focus for a genetic
"protection": half of me,
then a quarter, an eight, a sixteenth,
a 32-and-a-third... jump toward
64... 128... and... from all these fractions:
half and half:
beauty is no longer viable:
i imagine love as being a prized
bull kept for nothing except
for ******* the gene pool silly...

that's "love" from a darwin from
a materialism: breeding racing horses
or... both the submissive
and the contentious workers -
pay up! but i am not looking
for the generic beauty of
the plateau of the women
employed as surrogates
in this darwinistic harem...
            
isn't it obvious? it would have been
better have be allowed ourselves
to be dead: aborted...
but then: critter load: make-up...
i actually offend my own existence
by affording these dorian gray
parades to take hope in puruing
norms...
i like the scaps i like the wounds
i even like nibbling on the shellfish!

****-****** literature is my achilles
heel...
better a heel than trodding along
with faking a ******* knee...
robert duncan... jack spicer...
i like reading eyes by (metaphorically)
licking up the ****...
and it's not like i might give good head...
i employ a growth of
***** hair to convert my chin
to a niqab like i might: perhaps blink...

then again: face-masks and fashion?
is... this... somehow...
a "thing"?
            well it must be new:
it's nothing from the sort
of the elders i might care to remember...
i walked the scenic route...
blackberries and horseshit...
everything is baking in a procrastination
of: tickle the rats' nibbling...
scrutiny of the lesser of the food
hierarchy: omnivore that i am...

yes... that i like petting criters
that find themselves adamant in their
superiority...
but who have yet to see me:
teasing myself with
a: what if...
                 hours match-up to
not keeping count: there's a fog of them
that goes way back to...
out of the womb... then abandoned
by the scholastic detail that
allows them to float: limbless...
and then return to earth: degenerate...
and less than amiable...

        douglas murray is probably
a hot topic... i too sometimes bewilder myself:
it would have been best to have
allowed the pendulum to swing both ways...
but he (ol' doug) speaks very well:
his writing is... beside the generic...
salt of grain: akin to my own...
for a cubic's worth of water...

    i don't want this tongue to be somewhow
exasperated with concerns for this / an "art"...
or that it can belittle a scientific bone...
thrown to the politics and red herring marches...
spins the doctor: no plates...
forever the new lies
kept in the same old... rhetorical: quirk-and-quickness
of the quilled-tongue...
a knock-knock stone cold: generic...
must: mediocre...
tired of living tongue of poetry
that has to become tired:
truth has to tire so easily...
so that politics: and the freshness
of lies and the no-niche-audience-allowance
can cast their:
"vote"... their... archaic... illiterate "X"..

i will not poetry for rhymes for
exasperations - fooled i: to you: to pursue
that paragraph of fiction - either...
but as freely as this will not:
become an exercise in myopic-claustrophobia...
so it will not rhyme:
perhaps: to advent a coming of my
prescribed punctuation:
but more: your own, your "post-nationalistic"
canadian:
something the people of India or
China will not share with you...
because:
they are still of the mindset: China...
India... hell! Russian is towing suitor!
individualism collapses nations...
whether with a homogeneity of ethnicity
or the heterogeneity of liberalism...

           a wonderful collage of stories...
from the 20th century:
agony aunt israel bewildering
to either confront or defend...
            2000 years have somehow passed
and: europe is no new: "anew"...
it's the same old bland palette
of readily ethno-primed availability
of spices...
hurrah for thyme! and rosemary! mint!

from some mythical above
to this drudge of the pressurised castor -
there was something about robert duncan
that might always have:
made me... diverge from...
it could have been expected...
stash a tonne of bricks by day...
weave in an escapism posit of cinema
come sabbath...
now... escapism into... where?!
critical reignition of marxism:
that sort of marxism my parents escaped
from from under the old soviet
yolk of the satellite state
of poland: thank **** i too am an
immigrant:
but i see no repatriation politics
either...
               go back to a state of
the littlest of all bald envy necropolis
Impoleons?

            no among my native people:
among the natives of these isles...
a thespian: knee deep in ****...
           faking best predicts a survival
rate of this uncoiling...
it's a nation full of: self-
pre-determina...
                  automated prefixation that
can never allow itself to:
make sensible coagulations
of the odd sociable pint...

this atom world this atom's worth
of man...
best life lived as designated
to a harem...
  my and my leftover "blues"...
this world of god and the adventures
of...
no longer available...
thus this one "reality" presented:
playing by man's rules
for the purpose of man's eventual:
transcendence...
a dwarf riding a hunchback
        toward a goal that's a talking donkey!

what's otherwise best?
this has to be an: exercise in futility -
that it had to come from somewhere like:
borrowed prior -
that it could only be borrowed prior:
this tongue had to be inherited:
it could never be acquired -
that a native speaker is...
of a higher status to a bilingual -
because the earth breathes rights...

i forget: i am not equipped
with the desirable physiognomy -
problem being:
when i might find black males
attractive like i might lions: distinct...
i have this ****** on my brain
that says to me...
  well... well...
     i'm not gay.. but i'm certainly
not heterosexual:
even if Flaubert might ask the question:
blondes, brunetters - afro-beauties:
ivory envy?
  what can i do? fest on a hard-on
chemical "oops" / short-cut?
i can't possibly have... a beijing fetish?
a mongol fetish?
i can't? there's only one variation
of interracial mixing...
i guess... so...

     it would be so much easier
to just be gay and leave this world
with a ******* massive **** salvo
of: not coming back!
               to **** a black girl:
not enough...
to not **** a black girl: doubly knot...
******* a lemon while
staring at the sun:
the sado-masochism of
all the post-colonial empires...
and me: whittle ol' resurrected
******... or searching:
the elder prus - the new estonians...
some little european *******...
i imagine...
going to Kenya and running
for parliament:
to concern myself for the voices
of the: minority!

it's... fiddling with the already
prescribed narrative:
trying to make a lee evans jokes
out of it... but...
it's not ******* happening woe-o'-sunshine...
is it?!
it's not like i'm strapped
to a northern monkey
reservation... while still retaining
my: immigrant southern fairy:
commuter hell "debate":
this is not devonshire...
this is not bristol: i'd love to scoop
up a life of a decade's worth
up in Bangor... but it's not even that...
pay by way to:
a collective identity crisis of:
zee vest...
            
if it's anger: perhaps...
it's more a seance in glorifying confusion:
it was once perhaps a little
bit... naive...
but then... who's naive enough
to repeat two-folds of yesterday
within the confines of a day:
to- / to- are not future even
if subjected to incremental changes...
fx/dx changes that might
spawn alternate realities...

        the breaking of a donkey's dollars
worth: i do fishing in the indian sea...
with some... somali pirates...
it's not like i'll ever wake up from
this guilt... the guilt that might
riddle a people that inherited...
i inherited exile from my fathers...
i inherited: no...
the ****** aristocracy didn't tend
to their garden... there was no Eton...
no rugby no football...
there was only a partitioning...
to look toward the past is
an agony that i wish to only hide
in the english countryside...
after all, i thought: who would't want...
make a feast of conquest of this land...
but in a way that was norman:
that the anglo-saxon debauchery could
be... delianted
and brought to a celtic-esque heel...
with a dash of neo-paganism:
a york-up sort o' pie...

without disturbing this dilligent
people of: a most fervent... attention to detail...
it's an island... it's devoid
of any continental squabble...
no mongol ever... no ottoman ever...
it break my heart...
it reminds me: although it shouldn't
remind me...
the aristocratic class (they deem themselves
as much, so why deny them?)
of this country are like the ******
aristocracy
of the three partition "era"...
as napoleon was celebrated "elsewhere"...
with the resurrection
of the duchy of warsaw...
and... england made a beef from
a wellington...
and how the confederacy of germans
repaid the english during the first:
thirst for war...

                   a shogun's pride:
no one would invade japan:
given the persistence of pressure
from a civility of: glamour creases...
it's still the ******* canon rolling
the pawns and pins...

i have but this little interlude in time
to entertain: a history i have learned...
beside citing the obvious apple
hanging on a tree...
who? the burning vietnamese monk?
that's who i am going to... erase...
2000 (circa) years of history with?
this is how i play: conquistador-catch-up?!
this is my whittle muhammad
stage-fright?!

these new surgical masks are
not imitations of the niqab...
the arabs are not drying up their dinosaur
marrow reserves and are not
scouting for willing sodomite freshers
to their gargantuan wealth-soiling
of "morals"?
no? this is all... a pauper's conspiracy
theory... god!
i try to imagine the conspiracy
theory of kings!
it must invite a realisation of
a god or gods...
and at least a quarter of an abstaining
pademomium!

the poets and the sceptics
living under: the... gates are open...
a republic under "scrutiny"...
the philosophers and the
geocentrists - have allowed
for nothing more... than this...
thespian "bureucracy" of
shadow "fiddling"... tail with now:
tail best quite...

attention spanning the glorifications
of non-replica, generic
Solomon comes to the furore
front: then a mismatch
when the brain: swiss cheese project:
is treated at the Avignon
pontiff...
the harem and debauchery shifts
focus...
there's that "we're" and...
dumb-lasso-dumber than you'd
pay the libido of a camel with: for...

i have to always imagine myself
petting cats... or dogs...
to have to dissociate myself from having
perfect: the needs for either halal or
kosher demands of leather...
i best prefer the pipsqueak of
a meow to... an actual oink
in the litany of cogs and perhaps:
clogging up the machinery of
"jurisprudence"... as some Jain might...

borrow from... export very little to...
come the omnivorse of the east
and all succumb to:
boy-scout avenues of:
yes ss'ir...
most loathsome ss'ir...
                     i have to interrogate
the dead man as i am:
the best example of a cul de sac
of dreams: the...
pedestrian could mind not thinking:
imagine: imagine the corpus deity
of: unimaginable thought...
or one which has
an alias: unthinkable imagiation...

memory freelance architect prior
to noon...
is somewhat justified with...
a boredom of a cat come
5pm... but by then...
no cat is ever really bored...
and i have no need to concern
myself with dogs... or leashes...
or desires to: address a
workability of legs...
          to: give scrutiny when all
other examples are wheelchair bound...

he held a piece of paper:
between his hands... like my shadow might:
hold a butterfly...
exasperation:
that philosophers of ancient greece
said: poets begone!
no wonder this...
currency... of wanting to imitate
a petting of animals...
and... this thespian autocracy
that no elders could abide by...
it can still be excused:
the role of actors:
the role of shadow-thieves...

it can still be salvaged...
some of us are still the same rummaging:
in ruinous...
wordsmiths or... best...
plumbers... not some aspirtation
beckons for youth...
it must rhyme:
it must come down to: 2 + 2 = 4
sort of: flimsy poetics...

i'd must prefer to be a
homosexual plumber these days
that my very own mediocre leftover...
thank god i do not encompass
a courtship of a woman:
then imagine!
what did i do with my time:
that i do so much!
having made... so little money!
ghosts can't spend: ****!
i did with my time that
would not allow woman
to turn time into money!
thus i turned money into monkey's
play on elephant and
called tha pennies: p'p'eh-nuts!

  the old man dies:
the youth of man was never
supposed to be born;

god... this was supposed
to be profound?
with this idiosyncratic lost...
spontaneity of punctuation...
i take this reading as
a leverage for making
image: of an anchor dropped:
that would sink the ship.

. she was 19, i was 21, and i guess i was the first boy who treated her decently, allowed her to slap me in the face and stood like a copper statue before her... she wouldn't have made it at university among all the English yuppies, being pregnant... turns out, she might have opted for the Juno (the movie) route... all i know is that she graduated with a masters in anthropology... she was up in Edinburgh, i was back in London, roofing with my father doing the Scottish Widows HQ and then some other project, trying to weave myself into a managerial position in some roofing company... but then? the psychosis spiral... oddly enough - no hammers, no hearing voices wielding a hammer running down the street naked... contained... walked into a church near King's Cross st., lay on beside a the side altar, pulled the cloth from the altar, and wrapped myself in it... then heard singing, had my iPod with me... turned it off... turned it on again, turned it off... the singing still echoed the church... got up, put the cloth back onto the altar and started running around the church aisles... then a great wind dispersed the singing... what kept my sanity? well... given that i was smoking marijuana and fasting? one word... sátān... the whole 40 days in the desert? cut short... in a concrete desert... i phoned my then ex-girlfriend to meet me at this spot outside the church - right across from a royal mail HQ - and i remember the words: can you bring me bread, and water? nothing... on my own then... no... that sort of experience is no cause for jubilation, there is no ******* euphoria: you're talking about ******* it - in my case? thankfully that's only metaphorical... and i'm not buying the psychiatric *******, the easy way out answer: ooh... but youz ver in a church... what?! what the **** are these people talking about? sober people are allowed to have these experiences? well, really?! so why so many of them are negating or doubting intellectuals?! negation is the new doubt... somehow i managed to fend off the atypical munchies routine while smoking marijuana while walking in public... never bothered me... i was a reggae ***** at the time... notably Israel Vibration, Stephen Marley, Damian & Culture... & ***** and the Maytals... cliche, i know... but **** and rap?! seriously? gangster whatever the hell that means... i've just read an article about cultural appropriation... so what has the Jamaican Rastafarian culture have to do with Old Testament prophets?! JAH... they're always singing about JAH... it's a ******* yak! yah! a german YA! cultural appropriation my ***! it's Jamie Oliver's **** sauce! ****'s sake! yeah, right, Bambi on Jamaica smoking a silly one doing the reinvention of king David's psalms... no cultural appropriation there... nope... none... nothing... nothing wrong with Alpha Blondy singing about Yerushalem... nope... no cultural appropriation.... nope... none... nothing! i mentioned these bands to my Jamaican **** seller... big on the Illuminati conspiracy theories, i liked to listen to him ramble... hardly a Charlie Temple paranoid... loved his ox tail broth, his grandma made it for him... and a pretty daughter, but no mother... eh? his Thai ****? i'd prefer the shorter span of a tobacco high... where? near my old high school, Canon Palmer R.C. - now a ******* academy! whoop! whoop! sound the klaxon! you don't experience what i've experienced and start a cult with *** ****** in mind... like **** if you think you do... you... lay low... you puncture the existentialist exodus from Cartesian doubt - namely outright negation - and you wait for the revitalization of doubt, namely the pop culture variant of belief... doubt is, oddly enough, a variant of belief... and belief? be a leaf... just remember you were once attached to a branch of a tree.

yeah...

        a catholic school isn't
exactly a Jesuit school...

but being asked questions
about abortion
and euthanasia

   aged 15 or 16?

in real life?
  you short-circuit, glitch,
become ronin -

    the personal life, details?
too messy...
   she tells you she's taking
contraceptives,
   she's ends up self-harming...
she says she was abducted
and held for ransom,
she's a russian citizen,
her ex-boyfriend is still
hanging around,
  a son of some Russian oligarch...
you've only dated for a
bunch of months that do not
even make it half a year...
you don't mind condoms,
because... hell...
you'd love to see her wearing
latex...

     you know, the usual bits & bobs...

voodoo...
    for some strange reason i woke
up, and the ring finger blister
on my left hand, made by burning
out a cigarette on it
started bleeding:
  close to the bone -
and look! you get a slot motion
of your body recovering!
  no disclaimer concerning
the pros to what sharp objects
women do, by cutting...

but you know...
      asking a 15 / 16 year old
about his opinion
  about either abortion
or euthanasia?
  bad ******* move...
           at this point i'm thinking:
thank ****...

what does it even mean,
when a woman says it,
she's not exactly point-break
on Cartesian logic...

'matt, i think i'm pregnant'
'well, you know what you should
do, get an abortion.'

mind you... i am a citizen of a country
where abortion is legal...
hell, it might have worked,
*** was good, she could
reciprocate that sentiment...

oh, but if there is a kid at the end
of the tunnel?
i **** sure hope he doesn't
contact me, like a kid from
a ***** donor clinic...
      there's something malicious
waiting for him for me
to add about his mamma -

   aligned?
oh you know... *****, Henny,
  Diana and the Egyptian...
   go Charlie go!

                  please please keep
your name... we need a Charles trinity!

so yeah... Roman Catholic school...
****! oh right, outer east end of London...
Paddy central...
               i wonder...
                  but i'll never know...
the Polish Catholics are leaving...
               good on 'em...
          (yadda yadda, yeah yeah, for them)...

i'll never know...
   am i angry?
               i listen to Byzantine and Templar
chants and drink to a well earned
excess...
               sometimes the odd Bulgarian
******* to hug...
    
oh right... that one last time?
i didn't forget my genitals...
   i did an uncourteous lax of etiquette...
****!
           now it makes sense!
i forgot to trim my ***** hair!
(mumbling out) ******* eureka.

i like prada(wht u like)
got ***** in mi hand(wht u got)
and all yall ******* be like
yadda yadda yadda yadda
got dame i dont think u even ******* understand come close,
you dont even know who i am
snappin at mi a$$ like a ******* PARANA
you an under ******* achiever
gona
snap ya like a twig...overdosed
nirvana
when im up on the block
all the men faint their gurls hating cuz i am who they aint
im always open so call me for a date
leave your girl behind
she'll never know wht hit her
up though the grass hissing like a snake
she'll never know wht bit her

[Alright, I don’t know how else to say this, but...
You know Unsafe?
I only made 3 parts.
I keep getting wind that there’s a part 4.
I’m starting to think that SHE continued it somehow.
How she did is beyond me, considering she isn’t exactly real.

Oh yeah.

       You might want a little clarity as to whom i am referring to.

Alright. so, the series X is written about a mystery girl that is called (or rather represented as) X, no?

Well, the reason she’s called that is because nobody knows her name.

I never gave her one.

Getting back on topic, it’s supposed to be written by another fictional person, whom for the sake of continuity, we will call W. Now, W and X were in love, very much so. W is offed, X mourns, yadda yadda yadda, et cetera, et cetera. Well, I felt that in order to give X more clarity and depth, that i’d have to write a second series, One that is written in the perspective of X. This premise became what you now know as Unsafe.

But, for some reason...

As I continued writing Unsafe, it felt more and more like I wasn’t even writing.

It’s like she had extended into my subconsious, from the fictional world in which she dwells, and into my pen.

Luckily, she’s easy to identify. I write her in ‘a special way’ as opposed to my [normal] writing.

Wait.









Alright, Don’t be alarmed, but She MIGHT (this is a big might) have escaped the domain I made for her,

Unsafe,

And into my Notes.

I cannot tell if it’s true or not, as this notice is considered it’s own poem. I cannot interact with my Notes until I decide to leave any poem that I am currently in.

But more importantly, this also implies that she is SENTIENT, and no longer needs me to convey her thoughts and actions.
Hell, she might be fighting for control over my account as I write this!

Ahahaha...

I really ******* myself over, huh?

Anyways, if you see her, tell me IMMEDIATELY! Just whatever you do, DON’T interact with her! In her current state, she is most likely extremely hostile.
I do appreciate you reading X and Unsafe, but this is getting a liiiiitle serious here, so uh...

Please take caution! I couldn’t live with myself if one of my readers LITERALLY GOT KILLED OFF by one of my works.

I’ll update you guys if anything meaningful happens.

In the meantime, I think I’ll go somewhere...

Familiar.]

No!
Now shut the door behind you,
There’s only one regret I have,
And that’s not having you,
One last time,
You sure are beautiful

But then I’d be focused on the outer cast,
Instead of making love to the inner frequency,
I would regress to the outer self,
Because I no longer love the inner you.

I ended it the way I want,
I’m truly self-aware and happy,
Truly,
Just a little dumbfounded that it took so long,
My chest heaves easier knowing that I have moved on.

I knew I found it with you and I know when I will find it again,
When the outer shell is decorated so keenly, so lavish, begging,
That I’ll try to find out about the inner you,
I’ll be more aware of what I need next time.

In any given relationship there are two people,
Before anything, these two are on as polar opposites as possible,
One knows only one truth, “I am Me”
And Two knows the same exact truth,
But they are so drastically different that it would take an eternity to sort it out,
And no one has that kind of time.
These two truths represent the beginning chain of Order and Chaos
It is needed in everything, just in balance
As One and Two meet,
Certain traits and offensives come out of the woodwork,
This represents the Chaos,
It will grow unless taken care of,
These are the little fires that can be extinguished,
Then the Chaos of the Big Fire
Climb and grow and soon,
They start to be indistinguishable and blend
Into the One Order (Love, Unity, Harmony, yadda yadda yadda.)
It’s where time is impregnated by you and another entity.

Peps, here listen, hear me out
yeah I know you're all really doing your best
trouble is, your best isn't good enough

You're making us look like Keystone cops
all this haphazard stasis-cating around like drunk Ruskies
staying up late back early morning, obsessive yet incompetent

Yes, persistent is the key
thing is though, you're just too dumb
some of you think eggs grow on trees
after all there are  egg plants, so surely eggs come from trees
yes! and we all live in a yellow submarine!

Now listen to me, you plebs
Don't you know what 'Royalty' means
do you think its some wishy washy label from Primark
or some honor you can buy at a Car boot sale
No, you pumpkins, it's not and don't mention 1066
or that opinionated zealous fool, Oliver Cromwell

If you don't know it yet, better know now
our Royal Adversary is Simply The Best
this man is as good as you can get
we are talking Exceptional here
we are talking, top drawer, creme de la creme
we are talking, One of a Kind, the Real Deal, yes!

We are the majority, yes..fat lot of good, that has done
you're all as common as muck, ******, ******* twerps
that's all you are.
yadda yadda this, yadda yadda that we are attacking his psyche
it's psychological warfare, it's mental and emotional assaults
it's your mother's ***, you dumdum, the man is laughing at you
Christ! what's with you people, how useless are you!

I know half of you are demented psychos
and the other halves just plain simpletons and sheeps
now the blasted public are beginning to see that,
they are fed up, already!

I tell you now what your ******* problem is
you think we humans are all the same, you think he is on your level
you ***** think he thinks like you, sees like you, reacts like you.
You, yes you, are stupid, does he look stupid to you?
If you say yes, then you're even more stupid than I know

Just be ****** honest with yourselves and face facts
you are just common muck, oiks chewing straws
and the man is Class, quality, top grade, the business
gifted, talented, brave, courageous, exceptional and a ****** 'One of'  
The Man is simply ROYAL, that's nobility for you
and say or write any **** you want, that's the ******* TRUTH

Now, get lost and go continue your nonsense
and don't steal anything on you way out, that's all you're good for!
jingoistic trash, time wasters full of dog's crap.
And you men, if one can call you men, with your floppy tiddlers,
put aside your *****-envy complexes and engage your brains.
( What brains, actually? )

.at this point, in this particular instance, Kant's philosophy doesn't really matter, but it does matter for whatever particulars are left within it for the individual, rather than: labour freely, come and be bed entertainment compulsively sort of man... you can really listen of a psychologist talk, a philosopher will not talk, a psychiatrist will such listen and spoon you with pharma beige and bitter pills... or if you're lucky? porcelain and pale daffodil powder... never mind... the priest will spew his usual *******... the ******* will just construct an idea of a conversation with an O, an Oh-nomotopoeia... every woman is beautiful with eyes closed experiencing an ******... but these days Kantian philosophy isn't pop, thanks to Nietzsche calling the great sage of Königsberg an idiot... i never liked psychology... it was always too sophistry-riddled... rhetoric after rhetorical after rhetoric after rhetorical, yadda yadda yadda... regrets to fans of Nietzsche... i quiet like the the königsberg clock - disciplined man - people would wind their clocks when they saw him pass... and he went as far as 40 miles outside of königsberg... that's dedication... that's discipline... so watching this commando "vs." jordan peterson video... the "warrior-philosopher" mentality: sure... ever get taught martial arts by being kicked in the genitals by your tutor? oh yeah... that really makes you engaged in continuing the classes... a martial arts tutor kicks you in the *******: you become as much an enthusiast of the martial arts classes as a sumo wrestler would become on a vegan diet... "warrior-philosopher"... socrates pulled it off, but he was the one asking the question, not bloated in self-"awareness": the monologue... but socrates is a debate worth... or was he just lucky to have survived to ask the right questions? homer saw the battle of troy... and he was... a ***** poet... warrior-philosopher my ***... what are these, "current" wars about? they're about proxy... proxy wars are not worth fighting... iraq? proxy war. afghanistan? proxy war. libya? proxy war. one proxy after another... warrior at the gym... the actual warriors? on the other side? yeah: they don't gym bro... and they're not custard pie in the face mince meat cuddled together for a bicep... when wars made, sense... you'd get conscripted... but this current pro army classes, coming back into civilian class... oh what tales they must speak... warrior-philosopher mentalities gravitating their egos for a perfect psychology lunch... warrior in a proxy war? dog in a kennel... KA-GA-NIEC (muzzle - chomąto - horse collar - klapki - horse blinders)... i too might have been a... co-mann-do'h... kick in the ***** when learning martial arts? and no sorry? lying in a foetal position? women do that... i heard one story that a woman killed a policeman by kicking him in the testicles... but when a man does to a 15 year old? what martial art is there to learn? well there's only one "martial art"... kick every man in the testicles... for a man to do such to another man... the art became worthless in terms of a learning credibility... even in boxing there are rules about: below the belt... ******* western teachers of eastern combat... so i chose Kant... promenade of perfected timing... orientating himself like a shy sun to each and everyday... mind you: want to lose weight? two options... bicycle or swimming... or the gym: if you want to partake in plastic surgery from the excesses of skin... but exercise is so, so ******* mundane... you'd be better off chopping a tree down or mawing the lawn.

i don't want love to guide my way,
i've seen love being prophetic
concerning man,
and fill man with extinction,
but when i've seen the other card dealing
and have it filled with fear,
i felt a wizened presence of
either my self or god, and i don't
want love to guide my way:
i want fear to guide my treading missing
hoof trot, i want fear to guide me,
whether a fear of god or a fear of loneliness,
i want fear to empower me, for fear will,
i will not ask love for slaughter on the crucifix
i will not ask love for strength when love
gives nil, i will ask fear for all my coordinate
double denial strengths,
that whatever love comes my way
fears me not, even if i should be proud to deny it,
even if i fear it, make love not my guardian
my beacon, not my lighthouse or mountain,
let my guardian and beacon be the fear of constantly
wavering waves of the seas in the ***** of a hurricane:
and my halo will then replicate your ego
concerned with love, simplified by love unfelt
by me in your ideal of love thought: best expressed
by poetics of your kept gentle knees never knelt on.
Kant represented:        0 = negation,
ergo?              1 = sanction
   binary: yes no yes no no yes yes yes no no yes...
how simple: if not beside a coin-flip?
and the man isn't even recited that often
in modern talking points...
good: that gives me a head starts...
like a tortoise being chased by an Achilles...
i appreciate the fact that he's so under-represented,
denied access to a future (reading)
of his work...
  i love the sycophancy surrounding
Nietzsche: it appears that readings of certain
works have reached a cul de sac moment
of saturation, that...
what remains? are pedagogy rubrics of
regurgitation alligned to synthesis a priori etc.,
good to know, really good to know...
but now the intellectual output is not as
important as what the intellectual output
coincides with... i.e. the lived experience
of the thinger... the asceticism that
overpowered the aesthetic...
or rather... how a life dedicated to an asceticism
bore the fruit of an intellectual aesthetic
mostly associated with Kant.

Stuck on the actual prime meridian
where gambling and grown up shenanigans
are viewed all *****
hurting society, though I could legally go to the drain on my street
and drop a thousand twenty pees in it
nae bother
our equivalent bet
as high rollers we are surely not

I miss you Vegas
with your daft anti-reality cushions,
the strip with no history or heritage
necessarily
but with goofy drunken dreams brimming alive

and I know vice, bad, horror, addiction yadda yadda

I miss you Vegas

i've been feeding pork and beef to my cats
for months,
   and they love it (i'm wondering why
they don't drink the streotype disney fantasy
of also drinking milk - but apparently
cats are lactose intolerant, and it
gives them the *****)...
          but what i am worried about is this:
there's this uncooked chunk of beef lying in
the kitchen for me to eat...
                                                  it's there, teasing me,
and i'm actually contemplating about going all out
tartar on the thing...
                                        which comes from
what is equivalent to the mainstream forum base
of "virtue" signalling...
                      are there parasite embryos in this
piece of meat? probably? mad cow disease?
probably... i didn't get to go to the glasbury retreat
for almost two years because of the outbreak...
some people don't get to go to the glastonbury festival:
i'm actually considering lucky to have never been...
went?
             yadda yadda: equivalent to be there...
and then heidegger's ontological fetish for being...
whatever...
     it's a raw piece of beef...
                           and it's lying in the kitchen and
i'm supposed to eat it... but go completely tartar?
    it's not mince beef... it's lying here whole...
          it's not going to be a rare steak experience if
i actually do decide to eat it tartar style...
     cultural inheritence? ever experience a mongolian
horde? they did what i'm about to accomplish
with beef, not horse-meat...
                                                 blood-flesh...
sheer... i'm almost turning my teeth into culinary
items of a knife and fork...
   i know i will eat this piece of raw beef meat,
i know i will... because i know that raw aquatic meat
has more chances of containing parasite embryos
than mammalian flesh...
   well... there will be potatoes and broadbean
stalks on the side to add to the flavour... or as some say:
roughage (or fibre).
        but it's the erotica of eating raw beef
that reminds me of the time i "ate" a ****...
                          hmmpf... the perfumes and juices
and aura...
                  the way it overcomes the fetish of suckling
at a sweating armpit...
                             there are gradations in lymph
juices... a person who had a skin (ahem) "disease"
known as acne, and that person being a male,
is twice as like (of the totality of being a person) to enjoy
phem-la... i don't have a proper noun for it,
i hope someone coins the phrase... phemlolo?
               i never knew that ******* only applied to
woman on man... i thought there was a libra in that
definition in reverse... reverse of *******
while ******* a woman? stick your face in the part
your're about to **** with your genitals...
        i slobbered into that part of a woman, teased it with
my nose and spoke so many silent vowels with
the waggling tongue... that i evidently had to become
a part-time eroticist: and that's apparently the shameful
area of the art of writing;
               but you know: as you do in rome...
             now comes the biblical ******...
"forbidden" fruit? that's obvious... it's staring you
in the face!
                          variations of revisionists that cut off
foreskins (excesses of genital parts)...
         it's oral ***... that later translates into
                                          voiced anger, dialectics...
and to think: to state great principles with that part
of the body, and then reduce it to oil up female
genitals? worth it.
                   i really have to reduce it to that,
the mere thought of eating a raw piece of meat that's
in the necro spectrum and will not ooze out
anything equivalent to an aphrodite's perfume
    is brooding over me toward the shrine of thanatos...
but then performing oral *** on a woman's
genital parts is twice as revealing, and taking pleasure
from it? homosexuals do the same, or
are equipped with the same materials:
  it really is a house of cards,
                               the king up and the king down...
yet those who perform this "obscene" act mentioned
           in the book of genesis... of that "tree's" fruit you
will not eat: look... moses didn't speak slave tongue of
the hebrews... and of the people that spoke moses'
tongue, you'd need the equivalent of a rosetta stone...
but now you need three more language variations
to "understand" that's happening...
    probably english... i guess russian... and i'm trying
to think of a third... german?
      but it fallatio... what of the feminine opposite...
and some might dispute this: but i did eat a camomile
in harlow, ****** out of my head...
                              asking the police to take me home
in one of their vans at the end of the night;
fun times in england, with bulgar prostitutes:
who lie they're romanian and then speak to one another
using the cyrillic term haraшo / dobře / o.k.
             still, the idea of what is to come:
eating a steak of meat that's not minced, tartar-style
transcends a literary fascination with *******
literature (akin to harold norse's biography
******* angel) - it will simply remind me of
having once "eaten" out a very flavoursome piece of
****; and then engaged in butchering its face
to contort into O and Ah.

‘In the end, it’s the indifference that gets you. You think you’ll have years to get to know each other and, what the hell do they call it, grow “emotionally” together. Relationally. Forget it. That ****’s for the birds.’

Scrtchschrrttchschrttch.

The subject arched his extended index and middle fingers on both hands twice in quick succession as he said “emotionally”. He pronounces “birds” as if it’s spelled b-o-y-d-s.

‘I’m serious. I’ll tell you I’m deadly serious. You think you’re going to grow old with some broad and not cater some resentment? Where the ****’ve you been, kid? Didn’t your old man teach you about women? The times change but one thing remains the same: women. You think that fancy piece of paper over there on the wall really means anything? There’s stuff out there you just got to live through to understand.’

Scrtchschrrrrtschrtschrttch.

‘Well, yeah sure, okay that bit about taxes is true too. Taxes and women. Anyway you got me off track. You marry a girl and sure you feel good. But whatcha don’t know is that a successful marriage is the product of compromise. Love has nothing to do with it. It becomes something you just accept, like gravity. The apex of microdemocracy at its finest. We’re talking respecting and loathing, and I cannot stress enough the irony here, a person too much you wonder why you don’t just wake up the next day and put a bullet through both of your sorry skulls so you both don’t have to live out this day-to-day ******* nightmare anymore. No more waking up and sitting at a breakfast table so quiet the steam rising out of your cup of joe is audible. We’re talking no natural human noises whatsoever. It’s like high-security solitary confinement, but where the schmuck in the straightjacket’s not allowed to even use plastic silverware without the business end of at least three 9mm’s pointing at him by state-appointed officers of the law, not allowed to even ******* feed himself. He’s like almost forced to live like he’s 5 again, kind of like a sick joke, adult supervision one hundred percent of the time. But then at home it’s worse because there is someone in the room with you. You feel this hole in your soul and it’s big. It’s like both of you are looking at the elephant in the room and at the same time looking at each other looking at the elephant. You want to cry but you can’t, you just physically can’t. Screaming won’t help neither because then everyone else but her will hear it. We’re talking about complete isolation.’

There is the sound of cloth across cloth and loose change jingling as right ankle is lifted off of left knee and left ankle is placed on right knee. The subject is visibly perspiring. His face does not have a flush look to it as so much as a sort of the homogenous color of deli ham. An office door slams. The subject’s breathing is audible and moist.

‘What happened? Why doesn’t she give a **** about me anymore? Why don’t I really care? Why do I feel worse about not caring I care than the actual caring? Jesus. Jesus.’

Scrchtchrsctrch. Schtrschchsshtsch.

‘I used to love her you know. That **** I said to her in front of God and Jesus and, like, everyone I ******* knew, those promises to till death do us part and yadda yadda, none of that even came close to mentioning what this is like. I used to love her. I think she used to love me too. I don’t know what even happened, my marriage. One day we’re on a beach in O’ahu and next thing I know I’m shaving in the shower with a straight razor, eyes closed, and hopping on one foot, just tempting fate. I haven’t seen her smile since last May, the episode of my missing glycerin tablets. Heart murmurs.

Sctrtch. Sctrchtrchschtrschtchschtrchshctrch.

‘Of course I’ve thought about a divorce. She’s got to have to considered that too. But here’s the ultimate irony. You go through these pointless gestures every ******* day; every ******* day you get up and wonder just how much more you can take it. It’s like it’s so strong you can feel every second walk on by and slap you on the mouth. It’s so strong that the sight of her literally, literally turns you mute with pressured hatred. Hatred towards the ***** sitting at the other end of the table but sitting there with her head down, complete undivided attention on her toast. Hatred towards yourself for not getting up and chugging every bottle under the kitchen sink right then and there. Hatred for realizing you have nothing in common with your wife anymore and she couldn’t care less that it’s eating you up so bad you get cold sweats. It’s so strong you just sort of freeze and not say a word, just sit there and take it all in, praying for that arterial blockage that will take you to the promised land.’

Sctchschtrch.

'Do you know what it’s like to live with self-contained hatred? Feeling this hate but at the same time just not caring. Hatred that only grows from not a lack of communication but a complete absence of communication, like, I can’t talk to her because I’m too full of pent up depression, loathing, anger, anxiety about actually trying to talk to her, anxiety about failing to talk to her. And these feelings just stew in me and shut me down. No talking. With her. Just sitting there, the desire to communicate just to see if we’re even on the same ******* page, sitting there and wanting to talk but can’t because the loathing and anger towards your wife completely and utterly removes the ability to express any sort of rational thought and the anger over your spontaneous speechlessness just keeps growing making the attempts at even idle chit-chat a prospect steadily receding into the sunset. Just sitting there feeling perhaps the strongest emotion I have ever felt but at the same time feeling completely apathetic towards the current situation.’

Sctrchtrchschtrscrchtrchschtrsch. Sctrchtrchschtrschsctrchtrchschtrsch.

‘Do you know what that’s really like to have to live in this cycle of perpetual hate and silence and the same time indifference toward the hate?’

Sctrchtrch. Scrtchschrrrrtschrtschrttch. Sctrchtrchschtrsch.

‘Do you know what that’s really like?’

(There’s a song for this: ‘Confessions’ by Sudan Archives)

I remember it like it was yesterday (it was yesterday).

I arrived on a cool (42°f), blindingly sunny New Haven afternoon. It was as if they’d opened up that troubling ozone hole just for me.
I was as happy as I’ve ever been to be back. It was as if New Haven actually meant freedom.

I’d opened the door to our suite, dragging every bag I own.
After intense hugs, I'd said, “PIZZA - NOW.”
So, Lisa, Sunny and I, after some debate, selected Town Pizza.
Town Pizza’s specialties are those thin, gourmet pies with crust-free cauliflower crust, oil (not environmentally problematic tomatoes), topped with panda cheese and tofu.
In a shocking development, I got the cheeseburger special which I hit like a vape. †

SO, the three of us were there, happily devouring. Not bothering anyone, when this guy stopped at our table to offer us salvation and introduce us to - whatever (yadda yadda yadda)

I didn’t catch the entire pitch; I may have momentarily dozed off.
“No, Thank you.” Lisa said, politely but dismissively.
Not taking the hint, he reached into his cheap shoulder bag for pamphlets and began a new tac.
“Go away.” Sunny said, unblinkingly, but he jabbered on, showing the unaware persistence of long covid - like we were interested or tolerant.

“I’ll show you my bra if you’ll shut up,” I said, with my best deadpan face. Lisa and Sunny shrieked with several kinds of outraged laughter.
He became a statue, like a Twilight Zone episode where time stops for one person. A second passed during which he didn’t blink or breathe. “eheheheheheheh* I toned, like a buzzer.
“Two late!” I gameshow said, shrugging, “You didn’t verbally accept, sorry, I don’t make the rules.”
He shook his head and walked away—with Lisa and Sunny giggling and waving him off stage.
Our mission was accomplished. We’d defended our water hole like lionesses.

A few minutes later Lisa said, “He DID shut up, I’m not in law school, but I think you owe him a flashing.”
“I guess he wasn’t in law school either.” Sunny observed, between bites.
“I’m taking this to the supreme court,” I promised.
“How did the supreme court get to decide every ******-little thing?” Lisa asked, biting her abomination flavored pizza.
.
.
slang and notes…
devouring = eating like barnyard animals
Twilight Zone = More, so much more, than the most creative moment in man’s evolution. *
panda cheese = Ok, I made that up because it sounded gross.
† the author, in no way, endorses vaping, vape-related consumables or accessories

I couldn't help it
if you came the same
as you did before

And your weakness
is the only thing
that keeps you talking

Yea, yea, yea
Yadda, yadda, yadda
Realize the same thing

Who's been faking
it the whole time?

The thing is
I had worked them out
long before they started trying to work me out
coming from a different culture
to survive I had to quickly work them out
me and lots of others
we know their strengths and weaknesses
and where their Achilles heels lie
and even better we can call on two cultures
cause we are duo-cultural
while they can only see with one eye
but in arrogance they say they know it all
look around you then
why did the Jews come and made more millionaires
why did the Asians come and opened all your trades
the Chinese came and now people eat more Asian cuisine
than fish and chips
and their children, as also the Jews, Asians and Africans
are all in universities
why do the West Africans make it and the home grown blacks
hardly do
some in the States, where most of the black doctors and Lawyers
come from Africa or other foreign Nations,
Harsh truths hard facts
they had worked you out from the start
while you flounder on your sense of entitlements
talking about power
and who you are ruling
behind your backs they are laughing at you
don't put your blame on me
go work yourselves out first.....

i never wished for a happy family because i never really knew what a happy family was like. i always thought that i was content with what i had, and that i didn’t need anyone other than the people i already had. but then i realised, one day, that this is not up to me. it’s not up to me to choose who i want in my life, it’s not up to me to decide.

childhood should be one of the happiest memories of your life, and in some ways, it was, to me. but there will always be a part of me consistently nagging, consistently questioning, how different would my life have been if i had two parents who loved each other as much as they loved me?

it may be selfish to wish for things that are completely out of my control. because, again, it’s not up to me. but sometimes, i hear people talking about their fathers, about the support they’re given by both parents, even about the scoldings they get. usually, i never feel envious. i always thought having a mother was enough. but as the years go by and as my heart grows older, the hole in my life left by my missing father grows bigger and more noticeable as well. sometimes i wish he would be there to give me advice when it feels like my world is crashing down. sometimes i wish he would be there to help me with my studies because it feels like no one else is. sometimes i wish he would be there to share my joys and my worries and the ups and downs in my life. but he hasn’t been here for the past 6 years and i guess i’ve grown used to that absence. i’d like to think that his absence has shaped me to become more mentally strong in front of others, and more guarded of my emotions. it has taught me some form of independence as well, because all those times where i’ve truly felt helpless and alone, i had no one to turn to besides myself. his absence was something that made me, me. keeping my composure in the presence of others has always been something i’ve been rather skilled at, and i know that this didn’t develop purely by itself. thank you, dad, for helping me rely more on myself. because at the end of the day, we’re in this life alone. but i do remember the times when you placed me above you. i remember, recently, when i felt so distraught over nearly spoiling my laptop because it was a gift from you. i didn’t want to replace it. and even though i kept telling people that it meant so much to me because my laptop is the thing that i spend most of my time with, it’s my companion, yadda yadda, i think the deepest meaning, and the one that i would never tell anyone out loud, is still because you bought this for me. and i’m not going to just replace it because it has a special place in my heart. i guess you’ve managed to make a significant impact on me even though i haven’t seen you for a while. sometimes i wonder why i was so upset over the computer. but i guess that means i do miss you. and i do wish you were here. i remember when i had a band concert at the esplanade. i was nothing back then, i had no solos, i was just one player out of many. but i asked you to come, and you came. you flew from china to singapore to watch me play, even though i couldn’t really play at that time (what a joke). i remember you sent me pictures you took of me, and they were so significantly zoomed in because i was just that difficult to pinpoint. i can’t confirm this but i’d like to think that at that moment, you were proud of me. even though i was nothing but a little fifteen year old at her first band concert, contributing close to nothing because i couldn’t even play the instrument properly. despite all this, you still came. even though i didn’t manage to see you because you had to rush back to china right after my concert, you still came for a two hour performance. back then, i guess i didn’t really appreciate your efforts much. i didn’t even try to see you before you left. i regret it now. thank you for coming, thank you so much.

i say all this now, but during the rare moments in life where i actually get a choice whether i want to see him, i distance myself from that possibility as much as possible. is it bad, desperately wanting something deep down, but then lacking the courage and ability to pursue the journey towards gratification? it’s only when i get these chances, that i decide to shut down and act like everything in my life is sufficient, and that i don’t need more. it’s not, though. it never will be. but then again, i know that he did not choose to be the kind of father he is. feelings are uncontrollable, rampant, misleading – i can’t blame them for deciding that they would be better off apart than maintaining some facade of happiness. i know that they both did not choose to place me in the middle of chaos, but they did, anyway. they also chose infidelity, which is something i would never be able to forgive either of them for, but then again, it’s not up to me. their choices are not my choices. i remember being a child, barely seven years old, reading my mother’s mushy, romantic texts on her phone directed to a man i did not know. i couldn’t comprehend it then, but as the years went by and i was forced to recognise the true nature of my parents’ relationship with each other, i understood. i also remember that trip to hong kong when i was nine years old. it was meant to be a family trip – me, my mother, and my father. i think they were fools to think that they could maintain this idea of “family trips”. i acted like i didn’t know a lot back then. but i did, and it made me uncomfortable. but then the big incident happened, there was more infidelity, and that was when i truly realised that i was never going to experience a happy family. at least not when i became more mature or when i grew older. that trip was painful for everyone and there is nothing i want more than to suppress it in the back of my mind forever. sometimes, i want to blame my dad. why did you do that? i also want to blame my mother. you did it too, way before he did. why are you making it such a big deal? i’ve kept this unhappiness sealed tightly within me for the past few years because it’s not my battle to fight and it’s not my place to say anything. but you both have caused me an unbearable amount of pain, confusion and suffering and that’s something i can probably never forgive you for.

the presence of a mother has also taught me a lot. i remember the moment when i truly admired and respected my mother, not only as a mother, but also as a woman. seeing her take charge, looking composed, showing off her skills – it made me respect her so much. being a single mother is never easy but somehow she has done it, and i’m still here after 17 years. though i wouldn’t say i’ve been the best, and neither has she, our faults are what make us the people we are today. the sight of your mother physically hurting herself because of something you did wrong is a sight that leaves a mentally scarring image, and i think those instances have built up my mental strength by a significant amount. keeping your emotions in check is something that i think everyone struggles with, but through years of emotional torture because of my own flaws, she’s imparted that skill in me, and that’s what makes me, me. you haven’t been the best mom, and i haven’t been the best daughter, but for years, i’ve felt like what you gave me was enough. it was sufficient, and it helped me grow. even though i’ve openly rebelled, even though i’ve been rude, you never once completely gave up on me as a person, so thank you. something i’ve always wanted to do was to make you proud of me. to make you feel like you did a good job being both parents at the same time. and i really hope that one day i’ll be able to achieve that.

if i had the choice, i would want to experience a happy family. but if it’s not with you both, the people who made me, then i’d rather not. i guess i’ve grown to appreciate what’s become of my life. both your absences, and presences, have shaped me into becoming the person i am today, and though i don’t necessarily love every aspect of my life, it’s something i want to cherish. i do wish i’ll be able to see you both together in the same space one day, without any harsh words flung at each other. i hope that when this happens, i’ll be able to feel contented, and not uncomfortable like i always have felt. i hope you both have matured as much as i have through the years, too. i appreciate both of your efforts in trying to deal with things, especially with a young child thrown into the mix. both of your flaws have helped me grow, and because of that, thank you. when i started writing this i felt a slight sense of dissatisfaction and almost discontent because of how your actions deprived me of the happy family that everyone else has. but then i realised it was never up to me, anyway. things happen because they were meant to happen. and sticking with things just because it’s something you desire won’t necessarily  bring happiness. so, instead of feeling like i’ve missed out on very important parts of childhood, and instead of focusing on the hole in my heart in the shape of my father, i guess i just have to learn to mend it, or deal with it as best as i can. i haven’t spoken to you in a while, but i guess it’s as much my fault as it is yours. you’ve done a lot for me when you were here, and i guess remembering that makes the hole a little bit smaller.

.well... d'uh... why would i give up this current freedom of expression, in a medium, that has been so perversely suppressed over the centuries, in the form of, literacy access? what, so now i'll get to bow down to the bog-weeds of computer literate html coders as my new priest-class masters?! so... in the space of a decade... people being allowed the freedom to gain access to literacy, also implieed changing hands with the "masters" of "access" via computer literacy? so... when was it a bad time to state: strenuously... oh but i'm a grammar "****"... all those aeons ago, when the priests held a monopoly on literacy (last century ago), and now, some ******* pleb is going to tell me... that i have to apply myself to literacy, in a lazy: meme / emoji way? one kick to the *** and three smackers to the jaw... and off they went... like a cricket ball, in the direction of a wicket.

******* ******* bagged-up
*******
    ruining "my" *******
jukebox...
   i can't find this one song
i want to listen to,
and it's ******* my head up
like some down syndrome
mental breakdown tantrum
worth of ****!
       ugh...
bottle for the *****...
i mean: shove those *****
down, through,
a turtleneck
and expect a samuel beckett's
existential qualm / angst
via the work akin to watt...
****'s sake!
         pwetty language!
all butterflies and disney
fairies... ******* *******...
   i once stuck a thumb
up my *** after doing
the no. 1, 2 and 3...
wiping my ***,
then taking a shower...
then sitting down on
the throne of thrones...
shoved a thumb up my ***...
how's that?!
  huh?!
       oh yeah...
felt good... really hit the spot...
if you think i'm lying...
i'll repeat it tomorrow
to give you a recap...
                      just once song...
no, nope...
we're done with you finding
new "****" to listen to...
grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreat!
thumbs up, or rather,
thumbs up your own arses...
******* pederasty pushers...
   i really, really,
really didn't give a **** about
all these youtube socio-political
commentators...
i just want the algorithm to
bring back a taste for
exploring music...
clearly: that ain't happening,
so what's new?
            ***** liquor,
pandering for a bunch of
******* elves waiting for
         sigmund freud santa
to call them the naughty
munchkins
      while spanking them...
******'oh plus 12,
minus rudolf...
who... santa does a little
bestiliaty you ******* commoner.
get up to speed with
the project, savvy?!
well... looking at the blocked toilet
of what appears to be hinduism's
"time out" in terms of
reicarnation...
   i.e. so, you're telling me,
there were only ever,
only a limited amount
of people, trans-, moving,
from one zombie body to the next?
i can "almost"
         understand the platonic
trans- "confusion"...
benzene rings only acquire
the para-, meta- and ortho- posits
of attachment groups...
        it's a ******* nightmare,
this, current, reincarnation's
worth of a blocked toilet
   "world of events"
       wortvongeschehen...
blocked toilet of reincarnation,
as if, people are... "waking up"
from their mortal slumber...
trans- to one side,
          right mind, wrong body...
and incels to the other....
      wrong mind, right body...
               or whatever you call someone:
"too old" for their own age...
   it's almost like incels were
given "cheat codes" to the "game"
of life...
   the mind is too old for the body...
an inversion of premature dementia...
the mind has aged,
beyond the host capacity
    of the body...
unlike the Hegelian dialectic...
this is a host / parasite dichotomy...
most sane people have
a parasitic mind, and a host body...
but some...
have a host mind,
   and a "parasitic" body...
               the body itself is
a "parasite" rather than a parasite...
on the grounds that:
at least food is ingested,
   etc.,
                     but there's an
inherent existential bewilderment
as to why...
a mind can be trapped
in a body of a male...
   or a female...
or... as in the case of incels...
a mind of an old man,
is trapped in a body...
that hasn't even achieved its peak
of 40s plateau of
                            exertion;
i think i'm old,
             not that i "think" i'm old...
but i've come to experience
myself of the sort of reaction
associated to an old man,
without an old man's body...
it's no more a normie
standard for "delusion" as if
the normie standard of
fear of taboo associated with
   trans-"gender" current politico...
so...
as i once said:
in a mad world,
who are the sane propagators?
the mad.
the sane are off their rockers
filing suits
to conjure up the cartesian
inversion of sum ergo cogito...
i am liberal,
therefore i think like a liberal (etc.)...

           nietzsche did that part,
but only made a footnote out of it
in human, more than human...
so...
    go figure.

       i actually don't know what
a "liberal" is these days...
hearing: i'm a liberal, i'm a liberal
yadda yadda...
but then hearing the thinking
behind: i'm a liberal, i'm a liberal...
when propositions
were made precursors to
prepositions...
   that'll be the day...

          right now...
i'm in rampage mode...
                i drink, i turn into a juggernaut
when typing...
   neurotic about spelling mistakes...
and, to be honest?
that's what i need:
no room for lying,
and certainly even less for
spelling errors.

Those who study deep human relationships
understand that therapists - Buscaglia and the like,
have advice that,
when heeded
can ease the pain of our life’s loves.

They are apt to tout the benefits of
“writing down the top ten reasons why you love that person”
“and when the going gets rough, read the list”
yadda – yadda
More stuff like
“you can’t love people the same - all the time, people change”
blah – blah -blah
“Remember to laugh and enjoy each other”
and so on and so on
ad nauseum

Rules were made to be broken
so when the going gets tough, pull out
“the twenty reasons why you should get the hell out of the relationship”
Then when the going gets tough
you can retreat gracefully
knowing you “did the right thing”

It is because you cannont love people the same way – all the time
due to the complexities of human nature
and for when they turn their back on you,
you get stood up and they
tear-away the tears from your eyes,
swill their double scotch and
walk away

Somehow, a prescription for laughter’s medicine
doesn’t quite cut it.

So re-read your happy list when your together to remind yourself
of all you’ll miss when you’re alone
on New Years Eve
or spending another Birthday quietly celebrating by yourself

When tending to your garden with your own tears
     you can shred that happy list
     then use it for compost

If:

There were no people of color, they'd pick on redheads.

If there were no redheads they would pick on people with glasses.

If there were no people with glasses they’d pick on fat people.

If there were no fat people, they’d pick on welfare recipients.

If there were no welfare recipients, they’d pick on non-Christians.

If there are no non-Christians around,  they'll pick on Catholics.

If there are no Catholics around they'll pic on Christians from any denomination except theirs.  

If there are none of those around, they'll pick on college graduates.

Obladee, obladah, yeah! Yadda yeah, the list goes on...

(The same thing applies with Non-Christian bigots. Just change a word here and there.)

Bigots are bigots
No matter what the name
The underhanded tactics
Are all just the same.
They are heartless and evil.
That’s the name of their game.
They are social criminals and
Look for someone else to blame.

my neighbour is having a solitary moment
with a wee bonfire in the backyard...
don't ask me... i watched his father trim the grass
a few hours ago...
maybe he's burning that...
or... whatever the reason... it's in the corner
of my eye... and the flame is big...
and small enough... that.. if warranted...
would make a great... theatre of soliloquy...
i'm yet to see a shadow enlarged
and gesticulating that it's talking...
with a raised arm... the other arm playing
the gratified ballerina when the applause comes...
hand entombing the heart...
      i'm yet to see a skull hamlet & co.
             "moment"...
                       so that's my neighbour...
i'm perched on a windowsill sitting on a folded
leg...
           and trying to crackle my throat
like a perched crow...
                the jay bird is of the same family...
        it's a crackle... i'm pretty sure the bird becomes
its new: "revised" distinct when bound to flight...
it's very hard to find...
boredom and existential exhaustion as...
synonyms... however back you look down the
entymological route...
   i couldn't have scribble: if only...
     i couldn't have scribbled this out of...
borne from a compliment to make "boredom":
a necessity...

          perhaps i am... existentially exhausted...
wouldn't you be?
if i were drinking some kalimotxo...
               or 20 beers... there would be an incremental
effect being felt...
which is what makes drinking a fun:
a social... something to borrow from:
"celebration": disinhibition?
                           only because of this one series
drama: sharp object... which made...
led zeppelin somehow "cool" again...
   in the evening... which didn't make it to...
the: the best of - led zeppelin double **** album...
either...
           so my neighbour is having a bonfire...
and there's nothing eerie about the silence...
esp. when there's a humming...
a fire is talking... but it's not the sort of fire
most associated with pine needles...
pine cones... and ancient oak...
           so he's doing that... i'm smiling... perched...
and drinking ms. know-it-all *****...
and... that's the problem with *****:
you have to wait for it... then again:
merely waiting is not a desirable affair...
and preoccupying myself with: "something else"
for a span of 20 minutes...
       waiting for a k.o. instead getting to play
the fiddle of grand itch-maestro with...
a if it isn't a cat nicknamed by schrodinger...
then all bets are on Pavlov...
                   but it's such a tiresome debacle...
had i made a video and had it... (x, y, x) of traction...
yadda-yadda...
          all the drama: soap-opera i could have
enjoyed... an imaginary street...
with imaginary squabbles...
        but none of the very translate-worthy
orientations of minor frictions...
         the bonfire is dying off...
the fire hasn't been fed dry pine needles...
or pine cones... or merchant oak retelling the story
of marco polo and... to the fire with me:
none of this... mahagonny sheen:
i fancy... a rough stone turned into a marble-esque
sheen?
                         it might just serve
a wooden hammer... to tell the difference between...
well... my initial presumption...
should lady justice be coupled with a gorgon?
lady justice and medussa?
  iustitia (who holds a sword and scales)
& prudentia (who holds a mirror and a snake)...

perhaps if Iustitia is blind-folded...
prudence can have her mouth stitched up?

but i'm still waiting for the ***** to kick in...
and so much for "fun" trying to find oneself:
with all the readily available knowledge and...
not... not: plagiarizing...
     or "jumping ship"...

   there truly isn't some sort of worthy compenation...
the served platter: the swedish table of...
all the foods presented... and you come
and stab at the nibbles... in a congregation of
those: given the advent of eating where:
no heart or its content is of a debate-worthiness...

beside the ancient roman glutton...
and... the well trained oesophagus...
          and regurgitation... and what was once
the celebrated icon: the snake...
would sooner or later have to be replaced
with a tapeworm...

    the serpent has had its day... and marble...
time... for the lesser creature... then again: perhaps not...

in "celebrating a drink of *****":
well... so much for... hunting a mammoth...
or... sitting beside a bonfire and...
telling stories or: dancing ****-naked
and dancing...

         i see no circus(es): beside the heaps and
heaps of bread: a character "assassination"
in writing...
sooner i'll catch a glimpse of a ballet choreographer
pirouette...
than know the difference between:
spinning an uncooked egg...
an egg soft-boiled and an egg: hard-boiled...

a racing track... equivalent to...
being hypnotized by... a spinning vinyl...
because... yore! that beacon of yawn rummaging
in the background of ambience...
and refrigerator drizzle of:
when falling rain became infused with...
electricity...

- alt. to "say" shish-kebab (let's be swabian...
and... "forget" the hyphen...)
like a toothless dog...
indeed... sometimes the tip of the tongue
teases the palet(t)e... hard or soft...
but sometimes the tongue-tip teases the top
frontal incissors: teeth...

where is the concept of the: rhapsodic...
the rattle-R... the quick... imitation
juggling of the tongue against the palete...
where the breath that involves
the uvula to swing like:
"for whom the bell tolls"?

                   do you see anyone taming
a ******* coch draig... anywhere?
this? this being "this"... "vicinity" of da-sein?
there-being: there's (there is)...
          on the moon... the alpaca trail...
in el dorado... in how the zulu tribe announced
a pristine: sod it...
          if only bulls were used instead
of horses: all that grit and armour...
notably of the cataphract...
                       if only bulls were used...
but: who's here to "rewrite" history
of that already, past... and inevitable?

the terrible has... already happened...
               í hiechyd ac tragwyddoldeb!
                          to health and eternity!
chiral: no...
     cheaper: no...
              i will find the "hark"...
   chosen... no no no...
                    similar (soft) to kid...
hybrid esque...
                 that "h" is not a surd...
verbatin 'e hie'....

                Olav! Dmitri!
Igor! meine hoonds!
                  ч - cheap... ah... roaming
in and around Midlothian...
                    loch ness! no prefix to suit up
a tux into... comes as a "surprise"
with the suffix: a loch...
                       х: hardly... k, s or c... or z...
xenophone: yuppy... aye aye...

              trag-wyd-dol-deb!
  zee velsh: sometimes the added same,
consonant... nurse! scalpel...
makes way for perfecting the syllable
incision... like so... trag-wyd-dol-deb!

   the lights have been dimmed on the tablet...
the battery life's longevity: expoinential explosion...
it takes so much little electric conversion
to feed the sap of sound...
that it takes to create blinking
and not blinking: murmur:
picadilly circus phantasmagoria of u.v. -

you can be crowned king deaf...
fall asleep with the radio... when the lights
are dimmed...
       no sooner me: no sooner you...
but... i'd much prefer the sound
of a fox at night...
than teeth gnashing... frothing: idly hungry...

all and no science: "or"...
all and no politics... "or" all of politics and all
of science... and most probably:
when the priest would wear a gown...
and the vatican remained neutral...
      
       etc. etc.              beside the vote:
or: woe... or woo...
        and such is the suffix association
with:      -man...
                    that there's some sexually
pervasive: attachment of either:
wooed by woe...
or... or...           to be woed by a woo...
  the beta gang would be singing:
bigmouth strikes again in a placebo
rendition...
                 because when you want to pirate
the original: it better sound just
a little bit more than then most...
    effeminate male available...
a morrisey will do jack ****...
you have to go full-tilt hindu and back
into transgender with
                                  a brian molko...

or at least that's how i concern myself
when managing to sit through
a production of tchaikovsky's ballet...
   beside the feet: what am i looking at?
spandex... the bulge?
     like it might be some covert name
for a battle, crisp on a piece of paper:
before the puff of a battle of crisps goes: pop!
in between the fudge of marrow
and the shrapnel of bone...
              here... i find my throne...
in a memory that's at best:
an amnesia...

             and somehow lodged in:
the... would-be... renting bums of dreams...
the squaters... the dream circuit...
when... in 1973... england drew 1 - 1
with poland...
                when being... just 7 years old
from 1966... an epitome for a very befitting
ending...
a closure... like any other...
             grandp'ah once said... once said...
and great-grandp'ah once said... once said...
sure as **** the logbow men of the 100 year war
weren't english... last time i heard
that churchill "mishandled" his V...
the original V voz viz zee velsh...
             index and ******* at
the fwench knights... since... if caught...
they'd cut 'em off!

                 V-salute! salute!
                           the blitzkireg overture...
         compound! no spaces in between: no hyphens!
der blitzkriegouvertüre...
        
   "together" come "together:... the disenfranchised
speculation of... what it was like...
to borrow from the first sequence
of the 20th century...

       and pass it into... what was it like...
acid neon: blonde... the culprit of bringing
the "congregation"
   past-participle: a romania a yugoslavia...
and a poland... nerve-riddled lithuania
and whittle estonia: etc.

      that grand boag bear o' ruzzia...
             wit' its ever persistent euro-fetish...
windows! windows! we need to see!
kandinsky translated into wind!

       on this democratic canvas...
           on this democratic canvas...
einz! zwei! drei!
     raz! dwa! trzy!
                   hey presto:
               on this demokratischleinwand!
meine stimme...
   meine: boo!
              meine: ghulrückzug!
               ich: bin zu sein gehört... ja?!
  
          this grand idea of a(n) european family:
get together...
   under the banner of: der VierteReich...
                the penned scribbles of
could always replace the boom-boom-'ombs...
and the brit-thai... would sit it out:
gob-smacked into shackles
and halos and angelic wings found
in the replica bargain of dry twigs...

the english sovereignty found among...
romanian root and fruit pickers...
              and if i too weren't lazy enough...
i'd have managed to find an atom-bomb...
glued my shadow to a wall...
and started a macaques' dance of freedom
from the magpie's cackle...
#metoo!

                   the cure and depeche mode made
it under the iron curtain...
the smiths? sorry... but i'm twice as likely
to appreciate them...

     the bass rummaging from fleetwood mac's
the chain...
and the bass rummaging from
pulp's wickerman...
            
                              canys y Çymraeg!
r. s. thomas...
                 that... battle of the season...
who is to know... beside auld lang syne:
whether the scots 'ave some gaelic in 'em...
except for the orthography: the diacritical & dialect
of somewhere akin to Glasgow...

  - that "unnecessary" war within the confines
of: the proud and selected: "empirical" and by invitation:
the trope... the welsh are...
are a silenced minority... and all that would
require "us" to confine "us" to "do"...
would be...
to stop thinking of england...
as a nation...
and... australia... or h'america...
as... a diaspora...

              clearly: "they" want to be at best:
and at worst: the distinct: genesis:
valkyrie first raiders...
in that non-essential war:
if the 1st world war wasn't...
seigl pandering lizzy...
sweden wuz neutralz...

                      woz she'iz notz?
            a pwetty pwetty: cobweb riddled face
like that of chris cornell...
               glue eyed but a background all
lacking in dimension for the sort
of immediacy of a curtain! cobain...
     yes: this is me... ******* on and dancing
on a grave:
last time i chequered my patience...
i found... the al fresco museum in a graveyard...
and the 3rd party artist working
on the marble... by gesture of wind and rain
and sun...

             how: exhausted by...
you cannot write an opera in italian...
to later translate it into german...
nor... clarity! sha! shtil!
                you can't... translate syllables:
like so... from... a japanese haiku...
into a... at best... a hiatus! a european sorting
factory of minor minded details...
of: adventure when licking a seal
on an envelope or...
a footnote that becomes a peacock
and a post-stamp when... detailing the affairs
of a piece of paper being governed by:
grieving having paired with it...
the metsphor / metaphysical aid of wings...

flake me: sire...
     boxing champ burroughs and all those
lost narratives that will never make it:
market a slow attention-span;
that's already available...

                          the muse my muse...
past the bob dylan and dylan thomas...
the priest and a cardiff...
        if only cardiff could boast akin
to how edinburgh can boast about
the old town and the royal mile...
and arthur's seat... and the craggs...

and... what women want...
mereditch brooks would never become
the next: the next to what next
of a... alanis morissette...
              never becoming... or being...
but all of that: for a continued cultural presence
of being in the recital rubric?
thank god for that...

quiet frankly? the la's": there she goes...
a little bit... a "little bit" irrelevant...
when you listen to the whole album...

the trouble with falling in love...
      is the trouble of: falling out of "love"
with one's mother...
                pursuit of the details
of a foetus... and all those details
of an unread book that staged its "fright"
on a bookshelf for circa close to a century...

             welcome party! or not so welcome!
i'd love to hear more about
welsh nationalism... since: on topic...
the scots have forgotten gaelic...
because of glasgow and being: oh so all
so-over pristine & perfect...
at least the welsh! oh god...
the welsh! on these isles!

hyphen! enter!
cymeradwyaeth

               cym-era-dwy-aeth
                      cym-erad-wyaeth

applause!­ and i'm trying: so trying...
to live for a liszt and lady gaga
as a summary of the jealous eyes
thst gave birth to bitter-tears...
yeah... fame...
and the cosmopolitan web of c.c.t.v.
"fame"...
the one already arrived at...
and the one pampered... with glitches
                               of editorial staff...

gu an cuimreach!
   - the escapade of keeping strict rigour / rubric
of being fed by adverts...
to have a buying impetus...
but not... the selling / haggling impetus...
from the cheap-*** moors and
the myriad of marrakesh:
   the berber: a latin for: hard-time:
quitting-time blues of...
            there are people still involved with
the a, z, via x q and... no readily available:
ph and th...
         because they were never...
the sort of brits... about to celebrate...
being conquered by ancient rome...
and ancient rome bulimia...
somewhere "circa": the baltic sea...

               - there's a "need" to be "coincidental":
pristine the developed mandibles
and the surname akin to singh...
        or... khan...
                   double that... for whatever reason...
and call it: Wales...
and then... the english-speaking conundrum:
"conundrum"...
and at best... nostalgia for 1990s
h'americana cultural export of:
fwends...

                    then: at best...
Wales is... Silesia... but at worst...
                    Ruthenia... and / or... Galicia...
that now Masovia is...
and how the Prussians were once
the fabled lot of the germanic left-over pieces
of a people: "******" by the standard
of teutons... or... what part of the glorification
of ancient rome...
oh, right... the parts not making
the germans the antagonists...
the "paraphrase" of the unexplored...

                    that only the english...
were to be so proud of...
a much later "digest" of... to have a "comfort"
within the confines...
last time i checked... there was pride in being
graffiti riddled as the afghanistan of
the ancient period...

             the unique history of island-dwelling
folk...
that they are... and i... can write
in their lingo: as... being devoid...
of... root...
              what is the great wall of china...
when what's already available...
given the la manche...
                                                       ­                 is...      
is not...
                 such a most pristine choice
of gentleman... and all!
and all! and all were tio be advocates!
and vote bound to stress!
king and country and the pickwick society
of: loitering gimps for worth of letters!

half a face divulging shadow...
half of which encompasses a play:
a ghost riddled... humanoid loiter
of exaspersation... and none... which,
would be most available...
to loiter... for the apple of Judas and
tht clinging... #30 pieces of silver...

thus wed: las vegas english...
      loitering actors' spew:
awound an Ilfowd 'n' Bawking 'n'
Dagenham... yo popsickle
'ipe and joy-c-c / jewc...
or whatsemfwench callz: sauz...
via dat: zu-not-my-*******-zoo.. ju...
plonkers & sons. (available)
jue: not juice 'ough...
******* kite-fliers!

            talks a cokckey slang like
a cherry... and that's...
the last left-over before mr. bangladesh
    before: quckie does one speakin'
"smart" did anyone any 'ood...

'oved up a 'arry 'n' the 'etter 'alf
of the... non-essential...
sounding "smart"
in cockeny: to be made export:
"loading essentials"...
is... hardly... the right sort of
***** avenue of:
escape from cwawddyff:
you... poke you poke my eyez
out... you... better start sounding
cockney shmartz...
eh: ja: herr?!

       **** it... whatever...
elt'z and etc. this bogus party back to...
and so call itz...
a limboz partez!

In my hour of darkness, no, your not there. And tho, I reach out to you, couldnt lend a hand...
I struggle to put words on paper, my thoughts are else where.
My motivation has left me alone with black thoughts of just frustrated emotions.
This writing puts me no where closer to archive a goal, yet my ramblings of of my shadow, the man I used to be, is all thats left to speak. That person is tired, tasteless, tattered, worn, stale... yadda yadda...
You need something new to read, I need new emotions, to write about. Excitement, joy, wonderful creations in between these lines of gibberish.

/because you could really get a square, or any coherent mundane geometric narrative of re- re- re-... out of a *******... or tell someone with a size 11 shoe, that a size 9 will be, just as comfortable... and while the English language goes to ****, thank **** it has no mother and has no son in the guise of me... with the current lexi- of non-cis non-binary yadda yadda abracadabra... a return to stern, dog breeding terminology... pedigree, mongrel... hybrid... can't really as the semite for an authentic opinion, came from a people that sat on their ***** for long watching chickens walk down a village dirt road... anything to redefine, those half-***** screaming into a tin-can tied to a string... after all, Greenwich... outside of the English speaking world, we like to call the natives: Greenwich bellybuttons, or rather,  bellybuttons of the world: pępki świata... as a person of acquired tastes, it's turning into a heartache, seeing english so deformed... perhaps by both technology and youth... a Frankenstein to behold... and when in Paris, did I speak any french? not really, but I had the audacity to cling to an Italian girl who could, and a Russo-Canadian girl, who also could... but you still managed to meet people who understood that english,  not french, was and is the lingua franca of tourism... obviously not so much when it comes to commerce... and banking, is not exactly a commerce... neither is the media... e.g.? re.: Münster... on the first day 3 people (not including the attacker) were killed and 30 injured... on the second day 2 people were killed (including the killer) and 20 injured... who the hell still thinks that the media juggernaut is a trebuchet to fling a Meursault into the limelight? it's naive to think that such people are seeking fame... a ******* butter knife and a glass of beer will always be more "famous"... and the man who discovered beer, well... good luck reading Plato... comes the staring into the abyss, and the abyss not staring back, whispering a words: ad absurdum counter ad nauseam...


too much love poetry, too much love
poetry that isn't risqué,
plain mundane out of fear...
a fear of being found dead 2 weeks
later...
not mundane to say the leat,
just: a zoological observation
of a lion, rather than stark naked
on th savannah...
or thereabouts...
                but to have to exhaust
poetry for love? this sort of love?
i prefer the memory of candyfloss
sitting on a stump of wood...
        maybe that's why i find the current
movies exhausting,
           bankrupt writing,
or rather,  current movies an modern
art, minimalism, minimalism,
large open spaces replaced by
   strobe c.g.i.
point being, when did the fallacy
of subjectivity come into
contact with dialectics?
   just asking,  because i somehow
cannot conceive an objectivity of one,
in that,  not having to cite
a bibliography, third part sources...
can't a subjective opinion
be just as true as an objective
herd nod?
    mesmerising that
     subjectivity should be deemed
as sub-dialectics,
           bellow engagement...
somehow contaminated...
are pronouns in that respect
subjective? silly question...
chess pro noun: or solving crosswords...
pro nouns, meaning:
in favour of remembering
  names of objects...
            and further into the exposed
muddle of atomised grammar...
objectivity is when you stress
   pre nouns...
   otherwise, someone is to be found
vehemently stressing a pivot
word, and that gives him or her away?
all of a sudden objectivity is
regarded with more respect,
      objectively, perhaps talking
about things with a blank canvas,
orientating oneself where
you're not allowed to use nouns...
the closest you can get to asking
a co-worker for a hammer on
a construction site is to hum a hmm...
is that objectivity?
        hence the classically mundane
narrative...
   because i just wanted to say
that a richness of one's own memory
creates a cinematic void...
i can't estimate how many hours
I've sat drinking, more entertained
by my memories, than any recent film...
just like today, having refreshed
a pale nectarine kitchen with
lemon peel... i already started thinking
about the corridor...
                  but before that, during
the day...
    why is spring in England,
why is summer in England...
  so... ******?! i wish there was
a better word for it...
     god i've missed continental spring...
i haven't experienced, continental
spring for... 22 years...
                  deep continental spring,
past Germany,  above the Balkans
below the Baltic...
      22 years of 22 springs,
spent on that bog of a sinking ship
known as England...
rain... rain... more rain...
     dampness and 21 Beehive Ln.
Gants Hill just across the synagogue
above the estate agent...
    dampness and those *******
   woodlice...
          22 years having spent each mid
April to late May under
earl Grey the ******* ponce...
                     no one I sleep better
in this part of the world,
the body has synchronised itself
with the fauna and a heritage past
and the mind seems revived...
to the scents of waking trees,
   to the sight on national news
of bears waking from their wintry
hibernation in the Tatra mountains...
ecologists testing mosquito repellents,
anti-rabies snacks dropped into forests
for foxes to eat...
         and only the one direction
traffic of English... comes a headache
having to listen to it, comes easier writing
about it...
              hence the old woman decided
to take my case of the presidium...
tomorrow i'll have my photo taken,
take my British passport,
declare myself as myself before
a bureaucratic piece of paper
with a signature, wait less than two weeks
and get my Polish citizen identification card...
plan B...
       just in case...
          just in case it becomes normal
for spring and seeing so many
children playing outside the 2nd level
balcony overlooking a graveyard...
boys as old as 6 / 7 playing with
wooden swords...
     teenagers sitting on benches
in the cool night till 10:30 pm...
                               and everything else
worth living for, lived in a small town...
far away from the London rats...
     far away from a country that understands
bilingualism as schizophrenia...
              maybe i am mad,
but the ones who think I am, are no more
sane...
                than me...
                                first thing's first...
with a snap of the fingers,
i can retain my dual-nationality,
and perhaps, after a while,
after I stop finding the study of psychiatry
by studying psychiatric blunders
a bit boring...
            and say auf wiedersehen to
ol' ***** 'n' Charlie Ambrose...
                                                 honestly,
england's worth of its very misery...
    its hardball when attached to the mainland,
a nation of thespians,
     hard this, soft that,
                   nuns instead of frisky youth...
or at least: for the joy of life
at first, prior to the sentiments of
adulthood, and shackles,
as was once done in a spring field
or on top of a hay stack;
              which... makes it doubly
uncomprehensive...
     ad to why someone's father might
force himself to forget his mother tongue. ..
with his son not being able to speak it,
suddenly reaching for
         a bomb making kit, a knife,
a car or an assault rifle...
            that sort of grievance?
as the old testament ends with a hope...
not till the heart of the son
turns to the father, and likewise
reciprocated...
                       shame for the collateral
damage... truly, shameful...
but you'd think that a son could
realise his beef,  is with his immigrant father
and not the host nation...
            because a return to the past
or, the body to the land,
the land to the mind, and mind to
the tongue, and the tongue to the breath,
and the breath to the soul,
   and the soul to the forefathers...
          kinda amrican, wouldn't you say so,
Herr Jefferson?

.if you want the fresh impromptu, you might as well skip this unpublished draft, i'm even starting to think about leaking my hellopoetry.com password... but given my suspension... FOR 8 MONTHS because of some soccer mum not having encountered something akin to a harlequin novel... i'll leave it at that: •••••••••••••••••, here's to some depeche mode... last time i checked, even africans have the same inside of their hands "whitened"... there is no racial difference to be allowed to read into chiromancy... i met one ***-, tomikuni... he also inquired about reading my hands... we're all pale, governed by the thumb, when asked, or not asked, to hold "something".

and what is the only variant of classical
music, heard on a radio?

    well... there's the fama radio night
sessions - with not adverts
   radiofama.com.pl -

it might be your take on what the french
tell the english, i.e.: euro-trash...

but no adverts...

                          and there is no reason
to concede to reviving punk,
hippy music didn't see a revival,
why should punk?

   a variant of classical music radio,
akin to bbc 2, or classic fm...

       that "oddity" of a morphed bbc 4
internet coverage, akin to lionel nation...
and what i mean by that,
is not h. d. thompson's gonzo...

          the allure of the, un-scripted...
and all of this is raw, flesh,
language at a smithfield
                   or a billingsgate...

talk-radio as the logical conlusion
of exposing your child to classical music...
it's genius -
   reverting back to classical music
once you're older, and don't play
an instrument?
                      what's the point?

dr steve turley bashing out a medieval
mash-up on the guitar...
            and that's "not" even
inspiration for a rock star status...
i like his smugness -
    it's... zesty, lime-like:
             certainty of the twinkling
of the eye that consists of:
    a remaining - intact, i.e., sane.

bbc radio 4?
      what, with zee archers nonsense?
this radio novella
that keeps propping itself up
like a bad take on eastenders without
the kray brothers?
          
                  talk-radio is all about
a non-existent "script":
       the flamboyance of spontaneity...
with the crux, being?
                
                                     ensō -

the only aspect of ζεν, a ταoιστ might
respect.

      p.s.
                  do i believe in u.f.o.  s?
(****, acronyms and the plural article
attached to them, mind boggling)
     no... but i've seen one, so the belief impetus
is, kind'ah missing in me...
             i've transcended speculation,
a question-worthiness on the matter...
since the question no longer manifests
      itself in the narration impetus?
the impetus for narrative, is narration per se;
and how lovely, it is to see
a noumenon...
      when the world of phenomenons
reads like this:

  the times newspaper, saturday, july 21,
2018,
               OVER 70,000 CHILDREN
PUT ON PILLS FOR DEPRESSION...

great headline...
     alas, a chemistry degree (3rd)
from edinburgh uni.,
     am i chemo-phobic?
                 i should ask myself that
same question, when i next
brush my teeth, apply shampoo to
my cranium,
   or wash my hands.
__________
as any drunk might,
   now i know why my parents decided
to leave Poland...
   Chernobyll...
           when you hear the facts...
about a single gram of Uranium, U-236,
2.34 x 10 to the power of seven, years
being the "half-life" or...
****, i should have read over my
chemistry notes from Edinburgh...
before the particle fizzles out...

                 i was lucky...
i am to born again with the age bracket
of 33... which means i only received
a Cain tattoo on my right shoulder-blade...
birth-mark,
apparently i suffered greatly as a child,
hernia and all...
            i had the birth-mark removed,
i'm pretty sure i was a donor,
my flesh became donated to
   some scientific lab and studied...
here's my Shylock pound...

given what's currently happening in my
home city...
with the slow decay, the ever more increasing
number of cancer victims, middle-aged....
they're talking about the sort of cancer
that... moves, visibly, under your skin...
people are freaking out...

     it's not a joke,
   the soviets wanted to hush hush the whole
affair...
                   3.2 of whatever scale...
was hushed... but the reality was
aquivalent to 400 x-rays in a spell of a minute...
i was under the impression that i was
the child of economic migrants...
   eh eh...
               i don't think that's actually the whole
picture...
   come on! if people were hot and bothered
in Minsk... Belarus...
           this wasn't a ******* tornado...
tornados come and go... we're talking
500 years of after-effects...
               even my great-grandmother
remembers how the trees in the local park
were affected... streaks of autumn trees...
among streaks of actual spring green
phosphorescent trees illuminated
by street lamps...
          like the current phosphorescent green
oaks in england...

   they fled... and took me with them...
who gives a **** whether i came to england
without speaking the language...
hiding in toilets at my primary school...
but then... one day...
after self-teaching myself the language,
studious, labour of the mind,
books and books...
i was the teacher's pet...
             i remember this one time...
st. augustine's, near barkingside...
i was the only kid doing long arithmetic...
while the "natives" decided to
stage a: lord of the flies sort of coup
against the replacement teacher...
and what happened when our...
  ****... ms. mcguire! can't believe i still
remember her name...
  i wasn't happy that the children
were scolded,
  i did my work, they didn't,
and i managed to do whatever i wanted
while they had to catch-up
on what i already did...

         for whatever childhood i had,
i still remember it fondly...
    my father being unable to teach me how
to swim in the english channel,
me teaching myself to swim out of sheer
will and determination: competition...
i know people brag about:
how smart they were so early on:
                             yadda yadda bull... ****!

now i am here to take out my investment
in this language,
   to... peacock and strut...
        as i am also glad to not brag about
being a polyglot or a... eh... somewhat polymath...
either this... or a slump in depression
and suicide thinking:
   as always... i don't get out of bed
and think of one impossible thing,
   i get out of bed to overcome one suicidal thought...
not all suicidal thinking is the end game,
some of it relieves you in having
integrating a kick-up your **** to get out of bed!

so... the picture...
well like any past-time of any: happily to be drunk...
walking is one,
the other...
       i wanted to experience a hamsa...
     i was going to do the whole hand,
but i figured: spare some of that ink
for what you're going to write on your grandfather's
80th birthday card...
poor ******...
     he still remembers getting sweets from
two SS-men in black,
  sweets that would stick his hands together...
he still remembers how his uncle
laid in a patch of green, shot dead,
how the russian soldiers would rather prefer
to sleep in the barns with the goats
on hay rather than in beds,
how most of them were teenagers...
and how my grandmother's ultimate insult
to him was: that he was a skurwysyn:
  *******...
     well... he does have 3 other brothers...
half-brothers...
                         eh... clown needs to juggle?
however bad he was...
we did go fishing together...
    but now that he's demented...
and has a dementia routine...
                    it's hard to tell what it feels
in this, transition period of the perils of
us, the mortal men...
                  i could never associated mortality
with any sort of morality,
other than it being dictated by one's
own ambition: to keep as many people
from my private life as possible.
           so when my jewish neighbor
recently converted to islam drops by and
comments about my barber skills:
you and my son look like you've just been
released from auschwitz birkenau...
we laugh...
            and how it suits me... beard and all...
monk...
      cool cool...
   i'm still studying the qabbalah...
                    christianity became... too poverty
stricken for me, in terms of points of reference...
although not circumcised...
why would i be?
                          that extra bit of skin is
for me to not be ashamed of jerking off once
in a while...
   pije... pali... konia wali.

            and this is where the: right hand doesn't
know what the left hand is doing...
regarding chiromancy...

              tzayach's...
i tattooed over chokhmah,
                chesed and netzach....
for the love of god...
there's no     girdle of venus on either
of my hands...
  either hand looks like there's
a letter imprinted on them: M...
                i had a "fwend" in high school
once... god, what is it with the muslims...
either they want to **** you,
or convert you!
    started his own muslim chiromancy...
talked **** about how there's
the number 72 on my hands...
the number of names of the goat-blood
                               allah god...

no... i'm pretty ******* sure that's an M...
anyway...

p.s.
and then you look up those words ref.
chiromancy...
                 as ever, better to bewilder yourself
with what's in front of you,
in your posession than to *******
yourself around the zodiac brothel of
          ... well... even the zodiac killer
is more fascinating than all this: "constellations
talk"... yeah, and a paragraph of
marquis de sade's writing is more
of a hard-on than some harlequin novel!

i tattooed over the words:
    chokhmah...     in the sefirot tree:
wisdom... yah...
            chesed...        ditto:
    love... el...
               netzach...             ditto:
victory... adonoy tzevaot...
   2, 4, 7... those are the allocated numbers
to the sefirot tree...
   whether or not gematria is your thing...
because i'm the type of, "guy",
that likes the maxim: i'll meet you half-way,
now you meet me, half-way...

how could any muslim,
think i could convert,
  to the brat ******* son of christianity,
who keeps nagging,
and nagging, and punching and screaming...
if, that is, monotheism is a noble cause...
why would i look toward
the evolutionary direction...
no past, only forward,
how much of darwinism is about:
forward...
   all our ancestors were idiots...
ah... but what will those,
who will inherit what we... floundered think,
of us?
         not much, by the looks of things...
what have i done?
   to love wisdom,
is to find victory...
   the will, will come from itself,
and the power, vested in it,
i don't need to look for the "logos"
via the christian deity...
   i merely look at the genesis of the idea...
Heraclitus...
            and that's it...
and why do i do "stupid" things when drinking...
like pretending to tattoo my hand?
i do not possess the luxury of dreaming...
rarely... i do, but mostly:
it's the abyss that entertains me...
so i have to do something stupid
within the framework of a "today",
that i might sharpen my memory for
a "tomorrow"...

       i have nothing to learn from
the christians...
                  i might as well turn to paganism
if, and only if,
my... deposed fascination with
judaism diminishes...
                    i don't even care whether
i'm a jew or not, a yew: paraphrasing
the prefix from yiddish...
those people, were citizens of Paul-on-a-leash...
land...
                this is the best i can offer...
i'm not... **** like the ******* caduceus
of protruding veins wrapping
the ******* intact?

****... here's a chimera for you:
**** of a Hermes, heart of a...
     head of a...
                  feet of a...
and a tail of a dobberman-albino-monkey:
when it was still aesthetically pleasing
to trim the ears and cut off the tail
of that particular dog breed!
   and... i'm still drinking...
                      what have you...
bitter, inconsistent, whatever you like...
i'll just trap this in the internet index,
open a newspaper from sunday,
that big one, format,
                   the old school way of reading
an english newspaper:
   having once tried folding a page
on the tube (underground)...
              never mind, thank god i still have
my *******...
i don't look like a ******* loser
all of the time jerking off
without having one...
         yeah: i'm pretty sure the kippah
has something to do with:
the imitation game, of medieval monk's
donning the tonsure haircut.

p.p.s. em... revision, it was actually U-235...
and the core of a nuclear power-plant...
being exposed...
   like 40 ******* Hiroshima explosions
in one hour, non-verbatim...
but Chernobyl was a ghost town
without the sort of tourism manifesto
of Zionists...
who would have to revisit
the grave of their ancestry...
                  no "big" deal though...
m'eh, just a little glitch...
no children in Frankfurt being told
to not play outdoors...
just a glitch...
                the holocaust is forever
the major no. 1 human disaster...
pre-planned...

     say... why study jurisprudence,
when not having studied the thesaurus
helps, i mean:
isn't all of the jursprudent concept
based upon access to a thesaurus,
aren't all nouns: "suspect",
readied for the synonym spaghetti
counsil? no? my bad?

  oh, oh... good to know! really great,
great to know: who the ****
is peddling this sort of *******!
weasels.
even your own shadows will
not forgive you...
mark my word...
whether angels, demons,
your own shadows will not forgive
you...
you'll be dancing the *******
1518 dancing plague:
whether you like it or not!

      let's take a summary:
what looks worse,
Chernobyl or, Auschwitz?
how many tourists visit Auschwitz,
how many tourists visit Chernobyl?
hmm...
    tough number to crack open
for comparison...
          this is the one time i will
craft a crux for / of moral relativism...
who was gagging for it,
and... who wasn't... when it happened:
"out of the blue"?
        let's just say:
Chernobyl wasn't premeditated...
Auschwitz, was...
           now i did start learning
about the qabbalah for a reason:
the holocaust wasn't the worst horror
of the 20th century,
the 20th century prime tattoo of historical
events: wasn't Auschwitz...
       and i will, continue,
to learn qabbalah, denoucning my "christianity",
for this, sole, reason...
the yews, jews, yids,
aren't the only people alive in this world,
i'm not going to buy into this
solipsistic narrative complex...
esp. when i will, forthrightly:
denounce who was crucified...
      i'm done... with the unearthing of
the nag hammadi library in 1945,
complimented by the josephus ben matthias
historian...
             how jesus, "son of god"
played chinese whispers in the gosepl of
st. thomas...
   n'ah... n'ah mate... i'm done...
            find yourself a ******* imam
or a rabbi: my mind is made up!
ich will tanz diese tango...
              egal du wie es, oder nicht!
sorry... whether deutsche or not,
west saxon grammar translates itself:
*** essex bound.