i've seen a u.f.o.,
yep - a weird orb - hardly a helicopter -
and hardly an aeroplane -
i disclosed it once to a "friend" -
   apparently in europe the entirety of
the oddness of the universe can be caged in
the mind of a psychiatrist - that's europe -
apparently every odd observation
requires the secular
"priesthood" of psychiatry -
everything, has, to, be: normalised;
the sort of *******-tickle-talk
that allows you to return
to talking about the weather...
or yesterday's eastenders episode
on the by pedohpilia bankrupt
b.b.c.
  so? **** it, play along:
the funny people will crack any
time soon...
         even though i have seen
an u.f.o. i'm sticking the the british
take on "sensibility" i.e. lying.
so this paddy walks up to me,
a british citizen like any other,
but has this "royal" airiness around
him...
  he thinks i'm mere peasant
and he's a ******* monarch!
          he suddenly think i can't
comprehend english...
but he can... then i ask him
to recite the alphabet... paddy can't!
sure, you see a u.f.o. when
you have to immediately curb your
enthusiasm, because you're in
europe, and europe is "sensible" -
     so you practice your sense &
sensibility: see no evil, hear no evil,
speak no evil: but **** me:
think up a tier of horror
                  above the holocaust!
if we're allowing science fiction,
if we're allowing the "dream"
but never the reality,
  if europe discarded idiot priest
for a psychiatrist,
i'd probably prefer the idiot priesthood
to the secular "priesthood" that's
psychiatry...
        i've seen an u.f.o.,
but as you might expect, i'm "european",
i'm supposed to be the sensible one,
the never: over-fluttering in
excitement -
                       ****, i saw a u.f.o.
actually means: i saw ****, nothing
really happened.
            i'm occupied, the drinking is
hardly a drag, and the music i'm listening
to isn't that bad, after all;
hell, i must have been drunk watching
this electric light orchestra "glyph"...
you start to try to convince people,
   when the people try to convince themselves
belonging to some day-to-day
everyday mundane collective "sanity" -
**** it, you do what you have to.
a bit like this "surprise" regarding the
transgender movement...
         3 year old trannies...
   ever read r. d. laing's the politics of
experience and the the bird of paradise?
i hope to hell that r. d. laing will overshadow
freud, perhaps even jung...
after all: what glasgow giveth one
does not dismiss so easily...
                not without a brawling
spectacle in the back alley...
     what glasgow offers: one does not discard
even upon a 2nd reading.
                 and this is truly a topic of
the proper regard:
          all of politics is an aspect of experience -
as ever, with respect to heidegger:
   there's there-being -
but there's also mit-sein:
     with being, i.e. what?
                           mit-sein has no actual
coordinate to ensure a contract of
analogues -
             not a flat earth my aß...
you ever navigated a car via
    antwerp, eindhoven, venlo, duisburg,
  essen, dortmund, hamm, bielefeld, hanover?      
that serpentine is a ******* killer...
you travel east from that muddle of roads
you'll be a ******* general of the boyscouts...
      no, no GPS... play god, looking down
on a paper, yes, paper map!
            navigate that ****!
       oh right, 3 year olds and trannies...
why the surprise?

       jesus said to them:

   when you make the two one, and
when you make the inner as the outer
and the outer as the inner and the above
as the below, and when you make the male
and female into a single one,
      so that the male will not be male
and the female not be female, when you
make eyes in the place of an eye,
          and a hand in the place of a hand,
and a foot in the place of a foot,
        and an image in the place of an image,
then shall you enter the kingdom.
    (the gospel according to doubting thomas) -

so... trannies?  
              
      a ******* elephant in the room...
it's almost like people don't want to cite
where this entire zeitgeist furore originated from,
i.e. from the "heretical" gospels of
the "lesser" followers of "christ"...
         by now the whole affair
is staring me in the face with burning
coal-eyes...
            if only the nag hammadi
library was found in modern day israel,
and not egypt, and not the story of
the flight of joseph and mary to egypt -
   and not the account of the secular historian
josephus in the reign of nero,
   and the book of revelation ref. nero
rather than augustus...
               hey, i inherited this crap...
even though the old testament is ridiculous,
at least it's only so "ridiculous"
as to be "ridiculous" given the time-frame...
the new testament is just a blatant lie...
a blatant greek lie...
        it's the nadir of what came prior,
i.e. the excellence of poetic harvesting by
the greeks -
         the new testament is a death of poetics -
a religion carved out of:
    the uninhibited testimony of
ever perpetuating the hunger for the next
groove messiah...
       odd, jesus christ perpetuated -
             moses christ sounds a tad bit sour...

never mind, perhaps, sometime in america,
as it stands, in europe, we're stressing
keeping up appearances,
  we're being sensible,
                  we're being the apparently
"well-attired" -
                  there's a "we" that has agreed
upon the secular priesthood of psychiatry,
i'll just ask,
    is it worth the spectacular,
given that so many people are gambling
with the mundane?
       so? shut up, and try to laugh internally;
it didn't help me having either 1 of
the 5 senses to craft an account of
an oddity...
     i was told to step back into line...

   and this, by ordinary civilians...
           i'm pretty sure that army personnel are
more liberal to such odd events, than
your everyday grey-day joe:
you know the guy, you pass about 100 of them
in an urban environment:
that face, so unmemorable that it's almost
like looking at a concrete slab.

- you've seen a u.f.o.?!
- nope, i must have been blind drunk hallucinating,
  sorry to disappoint, ol' chap.

The clouds over Antwerp (so far from home)
Caress the cathedral, barely brush the dome.
The sun is mild, and the wind soft,
Yet darker, boiling things come aloft.

Tendrils of remembrance, making me a liar –
I said I'd extinguish that treacherous fire.
A torch that shouldn't be, let alone be carried,
What should stay hidden, locked, and buried.
A flashback unbidden - your easy laughter -
There is no hope, not in the After.

The sky seems paper-thin, a fake screen of blue,
Threatening to peel back, revealing only you;
The cottony clouds, an illusion that will melt,
Spilling the intensity of all that I felt;
Still feel (oh god), and I can't disperse,
You are woven in the fabric of my universe.

I wonder if you're gazing, taking in the stars,
Or dark forests whose trees seem to me like bars;
A prison: I'm trapped, without being held,
My heart saw yours and decided to weld
Us together, but the alloy didn't match –
My forever, your bad batch.
Bleeding, I hold on to the damaged patch,
Too stupid to let go, too stupid to detach.

My life stands still, as chances pass through,
And all I see, all, is that they're not you.

*

There's fog now, heavy like lead -
I wonder if the veil seeped straight from my head;
Shrouding the world in a numb ache,
Distracting my thoughts, for sanity's sake.

And your presence pulses, a soft thrum of power,
Pitter-patter of rain, a ghost of a shower.
Just like a ghost, you're gone, but you're here,
Too far to touch, but to forget - too near.

On the streets of Antwerp
There are visible areas
There are borders dividing
Different ethnicities,
Cultures and languages
There are areas
By income and colleges

There are also invisible areas
Corners taken in by the homeless
There's Antwerp's most famous
Louis, alcoholic and ex-military
Best known for saving two children
And writing a book
He said he never liked to live within 4 walls
Making about €150 a day
Sitting on Astrid Square
Going on 30 years now

There's the Scottish poet
Who spits rhymes
Like they came off a conveyor
He cited one for me once
I regretted it instantly
But at least I know now
What rhymes with *****
He hangs around the Central Station
And enjoys summer nights

There's Chippy the one with the dreads
Hangs around the Cathedral
And keeps an eye on the youth
In good terms with the police he is
No fights or broken bottles
Where he roams
Surrounded by the usual Gang
Of surprisingly well kept
Ladies and Gents
With their trolleys and carts

There's the very skinny one
Who once kept company
To a friend of mine
And exchaned his bike
For a loaf of bread
She smiled and told him
To keep the bike and the bread
He felt it was his job
To protect her
And guide her back home

Then there's "Santa"
Not much known about him
His spot is by Frituur N* 1
Best fries in the city
He wears a kilt and a red jacket
White beard and hair
A shiny bald spot in the center of his head
He speaks German loudly
To everyone and anyone
Bright red nose and square glasses

Now as I stroll about the streets
I know where to expect to see them
But to my surprise one day
Santa was gone
Had they taken him away?
Did the City of Antwerp
Reclaim their streets?
Did he die in the winter cold?
I put my pink glasses on and figured
Maybe he went to get beer.

And then one day years later
I spotted him... Yes it was him!
He wore neat blue jeans
And a purple well kept sweater
Glasses with a modern green frame
Hair and beard cut and brushed
He walked with a quick pase
Seemingly on his way back
To Frituur N* 1
Roaring in German louder than ever!
With a sting in my heart I watched him go back to his corner.

THE CROWD at Raf Simons’s Spring 2017 menswear show at Pitti Immagine Uomo in Florence seemed more uptight than usual, yet that’s exactly how Mr. Simons intended it: Scattered among the wound-up throngs of editors, buyers and gate-crashers were 266 secondhand mannequins, some seated stiffly, others frozen into upright positions, all clothed in archival pieces from his 21-year career in fashion. Though the dummies were arresting, the Belgian designer, 48, later downplayed this unconventional look back. “The pieces weren’t chosen with a certain kind of curatorial intention,” said Mr. Simons. “I didn’t want it to look like a typical kind of retrospective.”

Mission accomplished: Between the spooky setting in a cavernous former train station, the wooden mannequins and his decision to show “off calendar” (forgoing his usual Paris Fashion Week time slot), it all felt more like a Robert Gober art show than a museum tribute. Mr. Simons is, after all, still hard at work, his every move watched by industry insiders amid speculation that he may be joining Calvin Klein—after concluding 3½ years as creative director of Christian Dior’s women’s collection, in 2015.

Mr. Simons continued to riff on his signature elegance in his Pitti Uomo menswear show. The cornerstone of the collection was a series of loose, photo-enhanced shirts, knits and jackets created in collaboration with the Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation: voluminous pieces emblazoned with images of Debbie Harry or eroticized flowers by the photographer, who died in 1989.

Much like his designs, our chat with the usually circumspect Mr. Simons reflected a broad array of preoccupations and influences. He was outspoken about tailoring (“so much bad suiting out there”) and his design process (“no system, no rules, no structure”) but also about mobile phones, the African countryside and ’70s dance music.

One of my favorite spots in the world is: Puglia in Italy. There’s a house by the sea I go to, and outside, it’s just a horizon line. It’s that feeling of eternity: It allows you to think. If you put me there, I wouldn’t need love or anything anymore.

Between the country or the city, I prefer: the country. I live in Antwerp, a city that’s kind of like a village.

A place I’d like to visit again is: Kruger National Park in South Africa. It’s mind-blowing how it sits so far away from anything you’ve ever experienced in a city. There were no people, no proof of human life, just animals and animal behavior. It’s survival of the strongest, which is fascinating.

One thing I’ve had forever is: A yellow T-shirt with a black print on it from the movie “The Shining” that goes way back to when I was a teenager.

If I could be granted one wish, it would be: solidarity. That may sound emotional—politically emotional—but with everything that’s happening, I wish everybody would just let each other be in peace.

A current band I love is: The **. At first they seemed weird but they overwhelm me—massively—all the time with their intelligence. They may be the group that’s had the most impact on me in the last five years.

An old album I still listen to is: Kraftwerk’s “The Man-Machine” [1978]. My 1998 show was called “Kraftwerk” because I had four boys in red shirts in it who looked like replicas of the band members.

If I could tell my 20-year-old self one thing, it would be: grab and protect love when you find it. Cherish it, focus on it, concentrate on it.

My dream client would be: anyone, really. When I design, I am thinking about a lot of people, not just one. It’s more about connecting to a certain kind of generation or a certain kind of person that will connect to what we do.

I always wear: Adidas Stan Smiths. I have had periods where I only wore Stan Smiths, maybe from age 15 until I was 25.

The place that most inspires me is:everywhere. Some people have to go for a swim or have a holiday to be inspired, but for me, it’s there when I walk out the door.

My favorite movie directors are: Stanley Kubrick, Todd Haynes and Alfred Hitchcock.Kubrick’s movies are so visually striking, especially “2001: A Space Odyssey” and “Eyes Wide Shut.”

I collect: art. I started collecting more than 15 years ago. Cady Noland, Richard Prince,Cindy Sherman, Isa Genzken, Rosemarie Trockel, Charlie Ray, Robert Gober are artists that have made a huge impact on me on all levels, emotionally, conceptually, visually.

The hardest part of a man’s wardrobe to get right is: the tie and suit. [There is] so much bad suiting out there in terms of fit, style and fabric. So, when I design, I don’t start with fit or fabric, but with meaning. The phrase “suit and tie” has a special place in our vocabulary.

One of my favorite books is: The Christiane F. book [“Zoo Station: The Story of Christiane F.”—about a teenage ****** addict]. The movie [1981] was an amazing interpretation, but the book is more striking.

I feel most proud about: simple things like being able to handle love and friendship and family. Or taking care of my dog. Of course, I do also feel proud of what I do.

I am a big fan of: furniture design, especially French or Swiss designers such as Jean Royère, Pierre Jeanneret and Jean Prouvé as well as Japanese-American designer George Nakashima. I love how beautifully designed furniture sits in history—it’s unpretentious.

The one thing I always travel with is: my sweatshirt from Vier, a skateshop in Antwerp. “Vier” is the Dutch word for four. I always take it on flights because I refuse to put on the pajamas they give to you.

I wish I could always be with: my dog, Luca, a Beauceron, who behaves like everything except a dog—more like a cat or a frog. She’s still a baby.

The one thing I wish didn’t exist is: mobile phones. I am old enough to remember how it was before them. There was something much more beautiful about not having one. We communicated in such a different way with each other.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses

Thou hast nor youth nor age
      But as it were an after dinner sleep
      Dreaming of both.


Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.
                                        I an old man,
A dull head among windy spaces.

Signs are taken for wonders. “We would see a sign!”
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger

In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;

By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fräulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door.
    Vacant shuttles
Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,
An old man in a draughty house
Under a windy ****.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What’s not believed in, or if still believed,
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into weak hands, what’s thought can be dispensed with
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last
I have not made this show purposelessly
And it is not by any concitation
Of the backward devils
I would meet you upon this honestly.
I that was near your heart was removed therefrom
To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be adulterated?
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use them for your closer contact?
These with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With pungent sauces, multiply variety
In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do,
Suspend its operations, will the weevil
Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear
In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,
White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
And an old man driven by the Trades
To a sleepy corner.

                    Tenants of the house,
Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.

I met a boy
His name starts with B.Finally.
He's small but charming.He speaks French and Dutch.(genius)

First I thought he was boring(cause everybody says that)
But in fact, he's well educated and humorous and endearing.
Though he lives on waffles and beers(and chocolate),
I don't mind, cause he's care-free.

He calls his heart Brussels(weird huh),his head Antwerp and limbs Ghent,Namur and fingers Brugge.
I love every part of him.

I once lived in his head, Antwerp, where he hides all of his best assets.
Full of whimsical,creative and splendid thoughts.
The weather in his head is unpredictable.I still love it

He's sometimes proud and sometimes kind, but mostly very caring
I love him, but now i should leave.

The Saturday night crowd, all here to see Dave Van Ronk,
sit huddled in the fashion of Antwerp diamond cutters,
sipping cinnamon/marshmallow coffee at the tables.
Caffe Lena is Saratoga's happening place in the 60's and
we're here to forget the war and civil strife in the ghettos.

Sister Mary Katherine, sans frock, is the warmup act,
but no one really gives her any mind,
as she struggles to seat herself upon the stool
intended for the six-foot plus Van Ronk.
Joan Baez prepare to eat your heart out!

Without so much as introduction, she
breaks into a high soprano Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues.
Heads pivot like synchronized swimmers toward the stage.
Her silken voice emits notes blinking
into reality from quantum fluctuations in space/time.

Every quivering high-C grafts the audience together.
She's spinning veils of sound,
the like of which our ears are unfamiliar.
The quavers in her throat match the tremors in my coffee.
In the back of the cafe a drunken Van Ronk passes out.

The tie is in
There are several ferries
Standing still here
I think of grandpa
And how much
He would've loved this

I think of all
The sunny after noons
I sat here with Esther
Before she got cancer
At the age of 17
Survived it, she did
But she never laughed
Like she used to

The platform is up
As tie comes in
The water covers
The words spelled out
Across the stream
At low tie, it would say
"Love"

Here we sat
And cried our
Youthfull tears away
Boys are still mean
But we're better equipped
And they're smarter too
Somewhat kinder
And we're milder

A smile of understanding
Appears as I watch
Flandria1 struggling
As the boy tries
to dock it here
It's not that easy
To move a vessel

A black bag floats by
And I wonder
What will it learn
Where is it's destination
And silently hope
That the city will scoop
It all out...

The Voyage

The big seagull sat on the bow of my rowing boat
                                   on my way to Argentina and Rosita,
which I never met she had married guitar player-
had unfriendly eyes ready to peck my eyes out.                  
                                   I regretted my heroism.
I wanted to go to Argentina because of its pampas
Beautiful horses and also to be famous for the voyage
                                  I was picked up by a merchant ship
it was actually going the wrong way docked in Antwerp
                                  Free beer for the, would be the hero.
I got a job on an old steamer bound for Argentina.
                                
                                 Buenos Aires,
A City with so many beautiful women it took a long
before I got my stead looking for the tree of wisdom.
                                 I found it burning in the night
the Gauchos were feeling cold and set fire to the tree.
                                 What matters is the journey which is a fine sentence to cover for absolute failure.

it's twenty past four,
i have spent the past hour watching
the Vierschanzentournee -
like someone in England might
have stayed up, watching
the n.f.l. or a boxing match...
i bought johnny walker black
at the airport and i sat there
watching history.
                        can there be a modernised
version of ecce ****?
             apart from dietery requirements
and angst against Wagner
and all that pompous rattle
invoked in the original by Herr N.?
i guess there can be...
    there i was, on my hiatus,
going to bed almost every single night
trying to sleep-palm a chess set
or a keyboard, but both seemed out
of reach...
                   this, again, a forceful
resignation toward the past day,
              it will never be perfect,
the first approach will always be
rusty, it has been three weeks
since i last entered this spiderweb,
of snappy convo and even snappier
overload of democratic practises;
and before me: endless sleepless
nights, and countless miniature
fürhers... and thus this fact:
  which i thought was worth avoiding...
but then i did buy a used laptop for
550zł, (given the exchange rate,
that's roughly £100... the downside?
everything is in paul-leash (no,
that's not an americanism of drawl
and draw and slobber and Houdini's
last trick) - hence i might actually
sport a cravat, moccasins and a
velvet dinner jacket...
                                   and when
Rodin employed his minions to
    chisel away at chapters from Dante,
Dumas (have you ever seen his
omni coprus?) like some pseudo-Pope
employed heavy-drinking monks
to write out his stories for salon bored
ladies until their hands were
playing shadow-arthritis games
         that children would applaud:
rabbit! rabbit! poor monks, exhausted
from having scribbled and
chicken scratched chicken blood into
papyrus wanted nothing more than
to grow their nails so they couldn't
hold a quill... no matter! Dumas would
say... we'll sharpen your nails,
vol. 25 of the comte bourbon &
the flamingo dance, and Rambo XVI
were both written by the unfortunate
monks...
              once again: there's
autobiography... and there's an autobiography...
  to write an autobiography
so that no biography is worth writing...
perhaps if i used paragraphs:
i could be considered: "serious".
      then there's that thought:
thought as origin of biographics -
           nothing to be preserved in
it having happened, returning from
Stansted in a taxi:
  only a thought:
   philosophy cannot claim anything
to be counter-intuitive in its foundation,
to me that conjures up an analogue:
the guillotine is the counter-intuitive
foundation of the french revolution...
Ivan the terrible threw dogs off the Kremlin
wall, and gauged out the eyes of the St. Basil's
architect... and since then
children in Poland loved to play:
throw a bunch of marbles into a little hole...
evidently ancient Egypt resounded
in capricious cappuccino Milan...
or: Míllánò! nurse! nurse! the syllable-scalpel!
herr doctor, is that defined by diacritical
marks? yes sister.
                  **** in boots to suit you toppling
too...  and may i add:
             how ever did i digress from
the mundane reality of: second-hand laptop,
Windows in Polish... every single word
in english: red tape, underlined...
if i have dyslexia, it'll show like a crow's
feather on a dove -
and when it does, you can start calling
me Chief Apache Pixie Jack...
or how you have black and white as
polar, the rainbow... and then
nights in grey satin by the bothersome blues.
this will be defined by lacklustre
and hopping along... then, vaguely:
a romance?
                        it was supposed to
be a hiatus... hiatus...
         3 weeks of what became defined by
anything but such hopes...
   some people span a literary career of
20 years... take 3 years to write a book...
         it takes me 3 years to keep
a single thought...
          can you really repress biographic
accounts these days?
                                 well... if written
par with the times, i guess it's as much
fun as questioning whether
     the following two are very much akin:
1 + 2 + 3 = 5 - 10 + 20 x 2 = 30
is the same sort of arithmetic as when
you do the "math"of writing out
a word like onomatopoeia...
the hanging vowels of babylon...
          if anything, then this -
             as it also could be: on the scrapheap
of memory, a dazzling iron-clad
      heftiness of pulverising vector -
a Gucci demanding a pulpit and an
avocado on toast... champagne and
squid... or as the Michelin criteria were
revealed: rubber tire and squid di Calabria...
tell the two apart... you'll get a republic
passport... who would have thought
that rubber tires were the benchmark,
the ph 7 of foody palettes across the
azure blob, with some ashen and fern
bits in between.
   but this is me, testing new equipment...
having spent 3 weeks on two kinds
of detox... alcoholic... oh the whiskey...
and the ski jumping gavrons...
   plush? sparrels in a rolling dozen
of figurative barrels - and more sensibly?
kestrels, petted by stiff, castrated
   hippos of the sky, akin to astronomy
naming blobs: pi-7773-quatro-offshoot-of
Juno...
                 or a boo boo 747...
about as gracious as a **** launched
off a trebuchet at the dome of the rock...
gimmicky the sliding down...
hot wedge like swallowing a sword...
                3 weeks on this vegetarian
diet... detox alcohol detox 21st century
phonebook...
    rusty first imprints from the waiting game...
but my my...
               wasn't it fun...
                  Jan Kazimierz Waza
(the finicky cardinal)
                                       as presented by
Horatio... no no: John Ignatius Kraszewski...
   (Copernicus was apparently Prussia)...
which means Ignacy was Bella Belyy Kraшevsky...
      which makes me wonder:
why is the violin the pauper's? instrument
or the instrument of hoped-for empathy?
any one would tell you:
as also the accordion player on a tree...
well... roof here, roof there:
try doing ballerina's tip toe on a gothic
spiral tip of a cathedral...
and yes, the gargoyles... sing-along:
silent night...
                       holy night...
again: this was supposed to be a hiatus...
dogmatic statements... and....
    apodictic statements...
                      in truth, most people are
size 0 with their diet of words....
      where that turkey of a tongue to
fatten 'im up? well... ask the shepherds
of Damashek when Saladin will come
to rattle the blacksmith to wield a sword.
a thousand maidens faint...
   (if this was a cabaret voltaire play,
it would happen...
    and the two will never win:
one has a crop of hair on the scalp,
but spider-legs of a beard on the chin...
the other has precious silverware on
the scalp... and 21st Amazonian nomads
peeping out from between his
beard)... well...
not bad for a break from hiatus...
the whiskey is good,
                    the breadth has already been
tested...
   oh yes, the dreaded notes...
   this was supposed to be a:
a 3 week break, bam! a whole session
of writing it out in one go,
beginning with: the first question
i was asked as the Western Warsaw coach station:
do Kijova? i.e. to Kiev?
       oh sure, plenty of Ukranian merchants
down the western side of Warsaw...
   a Ukranian family of only women
sitting eating 3 while chickens among other
things: polskie chlopachki nie placzy...
and if you're lucky! you might even spot
a Mongolian!
                    it was never going to be an easy
transition...
i left Poland when it was -18°C...
                   sunny... bitter...
   walking on snow was like either
hearing a meow purr every time the foot impressed
itself on the snow, or i was wearing latex...
                 and to come into this abysmall
+7°C "winter" that England is?
   gothica... rain in winter... only in England...
and yes, if i were born here
i would be making awckward jokes about
the rain... but i wasn't.... i inherited it
from some unforseen discourse about
     Saint Gorbachev and how bloodless it all
became... prized piglets of Kazakh:
   dollar baby koo chi go go west and buys
usés a Lambro-jini... plight of the Sinking Belgian:
and all he did was sail to Congo on a waffle...
   pity the man! pity the man!
    i have no romance with England...
the grey skies and the constant rain
are like toenails to my heart... they're just there...
but you just see me walk in that pine
forest... in my natural element...
                              -18°C...
why did only German poets philosophise?
   and why did only Shakespeare make
poetry indistinguishable from philosophy and
why did the French turn to pastries
                                rather than the dry
and cough infused pages of bookworm time-donning
yella spaniel sepia waggle waggle
                  Sorbone          
   & Pavlov... pretty girls and pretty boys in
the Erasmus programme... to Rome!
to Antwerp! to Brioche! ... to a brioche...
                      Bruges!
                                               Kiev aflame...
Cracow a mind-game...
            Prague merely an INXS postcard from
the early 1990s...
                    Berlin a wall...
   Munich a litre of gods' **** and company of a dog:
of a dog's intuitive measure of man's
competence with regards to a desire for gods...
                   Lvov... thankfully Lvov
will never be the Istambul of Byzantines' nostalgia...
   so too Vilno...
                                                well...
that's for starters.

Brussels Bruges or Antwerp.

A slow-moving river
Streetlights

rain, but not anymore,
the concrete will shine.
Darkness, but not quite,
it'll smell like dusk

I will cross the street to where you are waiting,

then the rush:

I will have a wrinkle or two parenthesizing my mouth you will have bags under your eyes perhaps your hair will be going and a few whiskers will be gray and you will still be thin but no longer afraid,

every empty night and single meal will be forgotten and Peter Gabriel will play and I'll start to laugh and so will you because it is funny that we knew it all along,

you will be older and so will I but all those years years years years gone by is the time it took for the seeds to take,

the river will creep past us up and off into the great wide distance towards all the cities that we will live in,

the sun will rise every morning over you and then over me and we will get old old old old

.the industrial age is over... i sometimes forget when the middle-ground was made into a sentence... the antichrist, or the demigod son of Hephaestus... the satanic push... to lever the molten iron: over... salt / silicon mines! gears up! industry and the satanic industries... perhaps... just... perhaps... now softcore industry of: etertainment rubrics... sewn underwear from the genesis that they were always going to be: export, MADE IN CHINA... this... grand ideal... but coming along with my bucket and spades... i knew that already, come 1994 in st. augustine's primary school... i had the sponge ****** mind ready to slurp the bubbles of ferocity sally scandals... post-soviety ex-satellite state civi? quasimodo was always going to give me the thumbs up... but when the bells rang... they started ringing for no injunction of a need to 'en masse'... there was a fire... a quiet innocent fire... but all the fingers started pointing...

politics, this most feral sport...
perhaps... "ars politico"?
the art of politics?

right now... boxing seems like a civil sport...
perhaps the damage is not written well
into the events...
but at least the audience is tamed...
probably by bets...
or other forms of decorum...
but in this sport of rhetoric?
in politics?
i don't see how... i don't see how i can
ooh and ah like a douglas murray...
although i'm a big fun of...
almost every homosexual talking...
it's like... that one aspect of ******...
i would have: if i could have...
not have a *******...

said sir lancelot onan jr....:
i have never met a woman...
who could... hand-job / ****-me-off
a prince william better than i...
it's a sad truth when you come across
specimens of women who only known
how to YANK and never... DOODLE
the phallus... with the ******* still
intact...
and *** and *** is just a ******* formality...

darwinism is the modern reinvention
of the copernican ooh-ah!
if copernicus did so: as an "independent"...
Galileo came along with his
mighty telescope... and the martyr's cushioned
seat... while some Greek...
to "us": unknown...

******* is older than beer...
that's my habit...
i look at women in "niqabs" performing
these lolly-pop acts...
and all i see is the niqab...
ninjas of islam mothers of the true believers...
is there something wrong in...
watching others pleasure themselves...
now: **** would be wrong...
if... i somehow managed a proud richie
if... it were... a woman being skinned...
if it was a circumcision of man's phallus...
performed by an iron maiden
gimmick ***...
then i'd be worried...

like that sound-proof of: you're not
in the company of a psychopath...
when someone yawns... you yawn with them...

ostrowiec swietokrzyski is a forgotten town,
once the allure of metallurgy...
because rust belt only happens in
h'america... because the mines only close down
in england... these people were also:
people of the metal...
western europeans "think" that we
moved... because... m'eh...
your metallurgy meccas closed...
ours... "ours"... didn't?!

darwin is the modern version of
medieval copernicus...
and i'm pretty ******* sure...
the ancient greeks, in their childish solipsism...
had a quasi-darwin to begin with...

i'm tired of hearing this worth of ****:
there's not enough toilet paper
to match up with the 111 of wiping your ***
with the index, middle and ring finger's
worth of: grafitti!

but at least boxing is a sport that still
demands a variant of ethics...
there's gloating prior...
but catch a skiving ******* gloating
after... doktor dentist herr sadist is...
waiting... parlor no. 2...
you can simply hear a faint grip
of the christmas carol he's singing...
'i'll hang you on a noose of
poor's joe's intestines i dissected:
** ** **...'
you get the idea where no jokes
comes from?

no sport ethic teaches the contestants
to gloat... to gloat is to be fat...
to be a glutton... no one likes...
people gloating after the facts...
like no one is expecting to hear much
about: the heliocentric contra the geocentric
argument...

i beg to disagree... people have a hand
in endearing the geocentric argument...
in the anglophonic realm...
what have we not heard of in the past
2 years beside brexit, trump?
so... there's a heliocentric model...
that's working? or aren't we still
left liberated by a geocentric model of
the now and the in-between?!

last time i chanced the argument...
nothing "west" of mars...
perhaps "north" of jupiter...
again: what's the copernican "west"...
what's the copernican "east"?
i'm still a ***** ******* remnant
of ****** pact VARSUS... aren't i?
warsaw pact...
and so i am:
i am in england for no "apparent" reason...
the metallurgy advent of europe
ended... even under the soviet
umbrella you were... "influenced"...
only western europe gets to: bemoan?
begrudge?! nostalgia riddle itself an et off?!

- you can watch any other sport
and find less "grief" in it...

tennis! what is tennis willing outside
of politics?
the captivated audience...
esp. with the prime-minister's
q&a...

in football... any interference from
the crowd...
summary? a clause is passed...
pencil & paper muscles are flexed...
law comes into: from sleepy /
sheepish demands: a reality to abide
by, goal poasts are moved...

perhaps that's why boxing is a mythological sport...
it doesn't matter that the art... the sport...
doesn't take into consideration
the entire body... and even if the rules
"suggest" that the upper body canvas
is involved...
the boxing remains true:
as truth said: the interaction between
two fists, the head and a car crash
bound to some later... "investement"...

but at least boxing is a sport of pristine quality...
it can be celebrated...
with a fictive outlet...
the audience is involved but only involved
as a dasein: being there...
politics? i vote...
but i'm hardly ever going to fathom
being in parliament...

oh mein nett gott...
where is tennis and my tennis *****?
that game of: 7 rectangles...
and... at most... 11 referees...
and about 6 ball boys / girls...

ludo politico... this most feral sport...
come to think of it...
there's not much to think of...
but beside the sulking and the gloating...

once upon a time so abstract...
so abstract as there is nothing to abstract with

to exercise a will for the existence of a body...
beside having to justify talking
by simply thinking...

darwinism really has shaped events
of historical consideration to fill up the calendar...
that no amount of copernican gluttony and
gloating could ever surpass...

what was once intelligenstia vogue back
in the 15th century... via copernicus...
is once more intelligenstia vogue in this:
what year are we in?
darwin... darwinism outside of the anglosphere
of *******-tick-tock-******* is...
yet another frictive detail that acts
like sandpaper when attempted to fit into
a jean pocket of events...

it's rough around the edges...
and all this ontological borrowing from ape,
from lion, this ontological borrowing from
ants from... this microscope inside
a telescope... and otherwise... inverted...

i'm at the end of my road...
a most fractured example of what could
possibly be deemed human...
annals of worthwhile autobiographies
my ***...
merry christmas my ***...
this celebration is a bit of a *******-whipping...
i might as well die tomorrow and know
that only one man existed in all of history...
hardly a reason to curl into a foetus pose
a shadow and start biting into a corner
like some mouse for the celebration
of the birth of Leibniz or Kant...
nonetheless...

i am to celebrate... something that's
either a bad-*******-riddle-of-ad-nauseam...

or... how i'm the only person who would say:
you know they unearthed the nag hammadi
library back in 1945... and there's a correlation...
with the history of the jewish revolt against
the romans... written by an "integrated jew"...
a josephus ben matthias...
and how... that doesn't even matter?
because jesus wasn't playing
chinese whispers in the gospel of st. thomas...
and this is all just fine, fine; fine!

to celebrate a "birth" is to also...
make this "life"... what it is... "life" something only worth
the margins and minor notations...

what is relevant when cf. (comparing)
darwin to copernicus?
the awe fantasy ridden vogue of intellect,
the: darwinism is a square box that can fit
itself into any empty lodge of parchement...
a square can fit through a triangular shaped
hole... darwinism can...
be all and end all...
we don't need any continental
existential complexity... we do not need
any 20th century existential ontology...
as long as we have... an explanation readied
via darwinism... a simple 1 + 1 = 2...

i, robot; you - don't care...

Kant is still holding the spot for: bachelor of the year...
215th year coming...
Kierkegaard is a shy second...
but Kant is something akin to
what the Muhammedians would call...
the unison of all five...
the Shahadah is the categorical imperative...
Salat: to think is to pray...
Zakat: to not speak is to give alms...
Sawm: to not think about food is to fast...
(or keeping the motto...
i eat to live... i don't live to eat)
Hajj: ha ha! Paris! or... to go where you're
supposed to be...
rather than... expect others for you to be at...
to not be a tourist! a hajj implies:
be not a tourist! expect to be made unwelcome...
come with a purpose...
that deviates from the purpose of
a stated origin to be made purposive
by you going there!
hajj! don't be a tourist!

i have always found some relief in Islam...
like any Romford bound lad...
Ronnie O'Sullivan...
christianity? not after having unearthed
the nag hammadi library...
not after the words have remained
coincidental... not after 1945...
not after WHERE the nag hammadi library was found...
not after the powers-at-be
attempted to "confuse" / hide the nag hammadi
library as a distinct yet: simultanoeus event
coinciding with the dead sea scrolls...
not after the each quwaitii became a oil rich
baron sheikh... not became the pakistanis
and the bangladeshi decided: **** it working
slave hours in Dubai...

Lawrence of Arabia citation of Islam...
i will fake it... the christianity...
but i doubt to ever have a pillow to lie on...
i am pretty sure i will not make it...
i know the allure of islam...
i know the allure of islam when...
if only some genuine friend of this faith came
across me... before that farce of a friend
worth the psychopath's lying ferret's woo
of an Egyptian... with time:
no... no! no healing!

Islam is younger... christianity is...
how many schisms?
prune, pseudo-buddhist...
catholic, protestant... unitarian...
bishopric baptist... calvinist...
it's a... monotheism...
but... given the many splinters?
i find it improbable to not treat it as a...
polytheism... how many times are most kind sirs
going to divide the ******* loaf?!
until we're no longer even eating crumbs?!

christianity to me is a polytheism:
given the number of times it has divided itself up!
it's a cancer growth spectacular, al fresco!
i can only thank the protestants for this...
poly-divison...
after all... there was only one schism in islam...
and that's the allure!
because i am neither: Iraqi prone...
Iranian il allahu blah blah blahlah ural "who who"...

skin? or tattoo?
i have seen christianity die...
no one wants to talk of the nag hammadi library,
honestly... this is a ******* major event!
the media contest: the unearthing of
the dead sea scrolls is a synonym:
of an event that doesn't even happen...
the dead sea scrolls is an event relating
the death of the prophet Isaiah...
being disemboweled... being a courtesan...
guess what!
if no one is going to be ghost-forsaken
and salted-soul honest!
irish proud etc.! guess what...
like unto like: do as they do!

plus all this anglosphere wet-***** darwinism...
how the ****, did darwinism just hijack all
the arms of the humanities...
everything has to be explained with darwinism...
good! because if every cul de sac of life
was to be explained using copernicus...
imagine!

not even newton is a celebrated
scientist these days...
not even michael faraday...
but darwin is!
everything has to come down to
a darwinism - a branch of darwinism...
there's only one narrative:
a biological / psychological narrative...
how could a mythology surround
a Herr Faust / a Pan Twardowski...

england skipped the myth of the chemist...
the alchemist:
sure... william "Christopher Marlowe" shakespeare
tried to "catch-up"...
the english imagination was lost to king
arthur and the glories of:
being conquered by Rome...
of having been part of an ancient history...
last time i checked... us central europeans...
the germans, the goths, the vandals, the aesti...
the great migration types from the Causcus...
we... we didn't share the bounty of this history...
we're again: the barbarians at the gates...
us, slaves... with this sound-encoding and our
own distinctions: our caron S and caron C...
to sneak-in the tetragrammaton...

and who are, the Italiano?
do the Italians even recognise ancient Rome?
do the English truly recognise the...
what's that artifact... the Stonehenge?
ha! ha ha ha ha!
by joke alone...

darwinism's plague on everything cultural!
everything has to be a reminder of:
genes! gene narratives!
everything has to become a propability
gambit! everything has to be sacrificed upon
quasi-religious statements of: why you should,
rather than: why you shouldn't be feeling
so ******* grateful for a per se...

to me... darwinism is... a neo-copernicanism...
a stylish vogue rhetoric...
you can wear darwinism in the 19th to the mid 21st century...
afterwards? it's just a timid burn on the brain
to have to "argue" trans-generational
sensibility patterns of being the labelled:
made in western liberal free "ouch" spice society...

i can side with islam on two grounds...
who were the janissaries?
Murad I would have retorted:
who were the Jesuits?
if not by foundation, the hands of Ignatius of Loyola?
when who were the Mamluks?
my western neighbors love to...
designate my grand ethnic "etymology"
within the framework of the eaten E...
i.e. a slav(e)...

why would i side... with this... variant...
this... "variant" of "christianity"...
for a ******* carol-song-***-by-*******-yah
hard-on quest?!
you heard them...
old saxons vs. new blut saxons in
an orchestra of zeppelins hanging over london!
or... the lagoon as i like to call it...

check you "history" your etymology...
oh... because "they" would correct "misunderstood"
etymology... with a counter:
akin to the ethnonym -
loan words baron!
it's just "a missing E"...

it's still mainstream darwinism...
i imagine the years under the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth...
the Ukranians must have been like...
enough! enough of this Copernicus ******* already!
Ave Khmelnitsky!

after all... copernicus was right...
the sun does not move around the earth...
the earth moves around the sun...
copernicus was right... we were wrong...
the earth moves around the sun...
but... the affairs of the sun...
are not... the affairs of the earth...
and those... bound... to inhabit it...
the sun is important...
but... soap opera triviality is...
somehow... more... important...
drama of the callous nature of man...
is... more than... the vacuum riddle bundle
of billions of years is...
with its... mere H-to-He exchange of gaseous
bundle warmth...

one thing that governs my cruelty toward
how darwinism is exploited to fit
every ******* crevice of everyday life...
that one's: its supposed universality...

but then... this trans-genus trans-species
"comparative literature"...
it's not enough to be imitating ape...
again: which ape?
the chimp alone? the gorilla?
the ******* macaque?
why would i devolve...
having the body of a gorilla?
a gorilla could wrestle a lion to the death...
i, albino quasi gremlin bonkers IQ...
get to... pet a bonsai tiger!
yay!

two things went wrong when it came
to... "people, thinking"...
vogue ideas...
the copernican revolution...
and the... revolution of darwinism...
oh we can forget about marx...
we all know what was wrong about that...
i'm pretty sure some greek knew that already...
but we're stalling...
for **** know's what...
since: not being vular by now is not going
to help the "clarification of verbiage
over civilised tea and scones later" either...

if only these darwinist concentrated on
the source material...
but... to throw into this "existentialism"
a mix of peering with scrutiny at an ant colony...
at bacteria... at tapeworms...
and... somehow... being...
once more... the center of the universe...
of analytical diarrhoea?
in a heliocentric schematic?
**** me... are you sure...
this heliocentric argumentation was only so good...
as good as... when you didn't have to
navigate a west and an east...
on a map...
going through the Rhine valley...
via Antwerp... via Essen...
via Dortmund on the autobahn?

again... what's a copernican "east"?!

i'm drinking my first bottle of wine...
listening to ensemble organum:
le chants des templiers...
bellowing rams...
i press my lips against my thumb
and think of all the encounters i have
had with prostitutes... with honest:
women...
i forget to kiss my mother's cheeks
when we debate certain matters of familial
affairs...
she has travelled...
conversation comes around to her visit of
Malta... she was convinced that...
Valletta was constructed by the Templars...
i corrected her...
no.. it was the Hospitallers...
i press my lips against my thumb
and wait for all that's silence that's night:
that isn't day...
i have stayed put: certain...
the priest might just do my ***** work...

i have more concern for...
c k q...
              perhaps in another language:
not English...
where there is a phonetic clarity...
ich vs. isch:
           the eastern Germans will cite
it as isch: -sch turning into -š:
-hush - hush... take a ******* breather...
i have come to understand the English zunge
as: there are probably 10 same sound:
but differential meaning... alternatives:
no... there must be more:

for a quick: for a kwick... for a c.k.q.
-ick...
itchy? no... but you get the picture...
the same sound can be attached
to a "synonym" dynamic...
it looks ugly when you boil it down
to the nitty-gritty...
hell: you start introducing surd lettering:
you have another quirk!

by god on the throne most high!
TH = F...
how the H morphs the T to allow
it become an eFeFeF: backwards IRON...
or how PH = TH = F
but... fought is not thought (of)...
past term participle of verb: to fight...
i think that's how language becomes evolved...
it dissolves phonetic assurances...

here: a key... here... a keyhole:
I(ota) + O(micron)...
  insert (Φ)
turn... (Θ)...
hey presto! open sesame Ψ!

and while i wonder why cats sleep so much:
where do cats "go to"?
is it time to celebrate death another
day... another way:
beside clinging to the coliseum...
is it a return to celebrating life via
death via the necrophilic constructs of
the pyramid and all that's required of
an -esque?
life most celebrated: via the avenue of
death: trident... stiffening mr. smith...

this is elevated language: English...
i know how ugly it looks like when
reduced to... bogus phoneticism...
but English was never purely phonetic...
it didn't apply diacritical distinctions
like its cousin European languages...
it retained its status of the northern Afghanistan
from the ancient period:
at a time when Horace wrote his
****...

it's prishtine:     (š = sh and a missing e of
she)
check: če:que...
           the priests have dissolved to a kwar-ter:
quarter...
Antwerp...
hide the H: one eyed at the blind...
the other H visible: eying up the blinking
brigade of camel milkin' 'em:
hope to sooner..
the Arabs seem to be most spoiled...
once in the desert: these days the Bangladeshi
"pirates" have then soiled:
soiled & therefore sullied...
i wouldn't want to be living in a desert
pretending oil's almighty...

i can encompass the posits of FUN...
but all the older women keep telling me
i shouldn't give up on my bachelor
status... most of them being
Jewish... perhaps spinsters perhaps:
fiddler on the roof types
when i've already disclosed to them
an interest in the qabbalah practices
no missing *******:
no ******* tonsure imitating a *******
kippah...

a japanese forge at my toes...
syllable prone grievances...
it makes sense...
how English became elevated:
"orthography": ah ha ha!
sure thing... Jackson Dickens...
orthography is a spelling mistake
if and only if you entertain
diacritical marks...
since your language doesn't employ them:
hello ******...

what... said something too quick...
or too slow?
i give you: the sound eF...
via TH via PH... to imply...
the ***** of the fertile ground of
the differential...
photograph: fiction...
and yet you persist...
you can say the same ******* sound allocated
to a letter...
couple it...
that's how ideas are fathomed:

from the θought of φilosophy...
to the θilosophy of φought...

Lucy: luck: care... kettle... quirk...
beside the cedilla...
cat kat qat...
                  see a problem? "problem"?
me too... well done;
no... i don't see one!

purple dress does a singing see-saw set
and the hair glistens in the dim lighted and the club raves
with her bottom swinging near low
and her skin drinks the applause, no pulse-pulse, fast pulse-pulse, low heart-rate and soft smiles and clouded-daisied eyes: slack jawed, and gripping, primal energy : thrusting pausing: pawing and groping, prodding and packing
there are no facades in this dark
with the ice on her because her man used to have a cold heart
and he opened it up with his bank account for her
and for him she made the leather skin clap,
with the rover that dragged them to this party tonight
he stood in the background and his gold chain
spanking in the sweat, marinating because in his mind
he says he likes the way she dances
within the crowd on the floor in those heels,
those clear heels, those long heels, that makes her almost
his height heels, with her hair out and her body out heel-heels:
swinging near the people in the terminal,
and he keeps on her the go-go: somewhere near the wall
and she falls up: glitter glancing like the edge of a knife
nothing on her deep like a cut
falling off her
and inside there's something dark
when their diamonds shine in the dark
it illuminates the distance
he closes the distance
her heels ebb and wave towards him and her body
dances towards him with her ******* smiling
towards him and he glistens back
booming thugs into his ear, with the volume
only becoming louder
something nothing to get relief for
a tempo: high fashion: tempo, keep the temperature:
the rolling hips against the satin blue
ocean; to swallow his saliva, with his tongue in her mouth
bringing the body to the floor low floor, high buildings, and caved in followers
she locks eyes, he tastes her bottom cake,
and she calls herself his beauty babe,
as much as he loves when she is the top babe,
he keeps her as his bottom babe
because he loves to look her in the face
when he ***** her through the night and day:
twisted popped beat, fasting spinning mace:
wanting to devour cake, he wants her to be okay
blessed in the presence with grace
smoke flowed around didn't leave a trace

I went to the wake
For dear passed Olaf
cheers buddy
I lost the filter on my mouth
Within 30 minutes
And it was like
I was myself again
I've never been proper
No need to pretend here

I finally spoke with her
The girl with whom I share an ex
And we avoided the subject
It was like a silent agreement
She was so much nicer
Than I thought!
She roared from laughter
As I swiftly rejected
The poor candidate...
Women are cruel

I walked to South Antwerp
Only to recognize
In-And-Out-Of-Jail-Joessef
I did not see your face
I just knew
But you know, we don't have to
Be friends or anything...
Carry on.

I drunk dialed my sister
Who then drove me
To party in a bumfuck town
And it was kind of fun
stop looking, it isn't going to happen
no matter how much you went to my highschool

But the beer was cheap
And the company was good
I'm starting to like this
Single girl deal
come and go as I please
Life's good.

it seems the closer i get to my dreams
the less gravity pulls me towards reality

i wake each morning nose to nose with myself
floating above my still sleeping body

as my eyelids flutter i fall back within my bones
and breathe deeply as i recount the strangeness -

lost in the docks of antwerp desperate for evening attire,
watching robed friends don masks and sing of sadness -

my past follows me into the great beyond
and stares me in the eyes again and again

for some reason i can see and feel you,
but the familiarity is gone and your voice is no longer yours

i wonder if that's the first thing to disappear
from the recesses of our minds - the sound of love

Not living for later
but together, social
and respected

The king loathes it
He takes palaces and farmsteads
His taxation breaks

the compliance, cold
causes hunger
Threat of war

Propaganda points the way:
there is a saviour, a Father
of the Nation, he protects

the refugees from Antwerp
and the trade, he will
drive out tyranny

that beheads dukes and puts
believers at the stake, that makes
the country pay for the oppression

His warm smile
His warm hands
His eloquence
and wit - shameless

His fun for life
His will to live
His choice to
no longer suffer - too long

Untimeliness leaves us with

A beer at 11,
a library card,
a face to the sun.

A lunch in Antwerp,
and Christmas abroad -
away from fuss

Dear dad, you gave it all
away you go.

he said I was a beautiful person, the most beautiful person he knows; the last thing I'd ever expect him to say to me, the one thing I'd never thought he'd say or mean, but he said it and I felt electricity o


and he didn't want to let me go, when I tried to pull back slightly, his arms would hold tighter and I laid my wet cheek on his chest: when he said it that way, I believed him, please don't let those words be empty: say it with the weight, I will choose to believe you've said it with weight:

.Daniel Farke is not the older brother of Roger Federer?!

come on! come on ref.! that was a blatant off-side...
a blatant fowl -

apparently when the famous
grouse comes out -
liter bottle being towed and...
no one wants to drink it...

you brewing chocolate with
that attempt to sneak in a tamed
laphroaig? tamed -
an exaggeration... truly is...

even o' Knausgård loves a bit
of footie...
as did ol' Marley...
and what's not to like?
it's the alternative to compensate
without watching ballet -
and of the latter i too am prone...

22 ballerinas and in between
some: stop being so sensitive
as a fwench footballer...
the whole story... in a nutshell...

the next draw of the f.a. cup is
happening in england...
oh... me? mezmerised?
mesmerized... **** it:
moi... meßmerißed?

i have been playing... wir sind des
geyers schwarzer haufen...
in the background...
imagine my immediate shock...
och! no apostrophe to be associated
with a possessive article...
geyers: oh those pedantic germans
i will round up and tell them:
sie sind so falsch!

who was norwich city playing tonight?
Burnley...
but that doesn't matter...
i sometimes watch movies to remember faces...
i like to remember faces...
esp. in movies...
photographic memory which also
implies that i'd rather read a paper
map than follow g.p.s. directions:
esp. in the vicinity of Antwerp...

and most esp. when the german roullade
of traffic comes up...
the Rhine... three cities... Duisburg,
Essen, Dotrmund... and you're not a local...
and you're navigating armed with only
a paper map...

but that's not the point -
there's a reason why i wrote these last words
first - to have to also write them last...

no one is going to come up and tell me
that, "somehow" the manager of Norwich F.C.:
Daniel Farke...
is not the older brother of Roger Federer -
a genetic choking delay...
Daniel Farke is not the older brother of
Roger Federer??
ref.! oi! come on!
blatantly a few genes skipped or were lagging
when this doppelgänger phenomenon
took off!

but... more like an older brother than
really trying to match a doppelgänger to a victim
like some trivial pursuit with stalkers...

navigating a car past Antwerp and then
through Duisburg, Essen, Dotrmund
is a major *****... but then the joy of sneaking
past Berlin at its toes via
Ludwigsfelde and bang on straight
toward Frankfurt an der Oder...

i still remember the border police and checkpoints
and the long queues on the bridge and
prior to it...

are assigned doppelgängers because
we do not have twins?
yet... we need to have a, twin?
an older brother...
i somtimes thought about my doppelgänger...
like this cosmic oopsie that it already
is...

my "twin" elsewhere...
am i having the "better" life of the two of us?
come to think of it...
there's no "better"...
only that... which of the lives is more
plain in sight: just odd, just weird?!

I threw everything around my room only to break down and slam my fists against the carpet
he looked at me and said he couldn't believe the person behind these eyes was his
and I finally believed for once that he felt lucky to have me that he believed I was his favorite
and possibly, in his world, the most gorgeous woman there was and now he seemed to ruin me
with that tease, I wished to slap him and make him regret it: my mind began
to laugh at me, the world was darkened and I called out to spirits and I began to
see visions, feel a higher energy tingle around me, kicking a hole in the wall
while smashing my fist against my pillows and to sleep, no sleep, wanted to stop eating
thoughts of suffocating myself with the blankets under the pillows,
no one would find me: my mind colored grayscale, thoughts no onewould miss me, thinking he would
move on, ******* eyes, want him to need me; now I can and I will make you need me,
I will be more terrifying: the faces you made as I rode you and slammed
my big derriere on you, that look you made when you thought about me, the one behind
these eyes, is truly yours, the way your eyes softened to see my hair out,
cleavage out, crawling around towards you: ten more times, feeling
rings around your mouth, make him need me. it will sting, it will hurt,
it will feel good. you will live. i will make you alive. resuscitate. he likes that,
he likes that. really I just wanted to bruise him again, leave myself on him again,
on him again, leave myself, once more, to leave my mark on him, physically this time: I said I would no
longer claim, but I will leave myself on him, let him see my love on him, let him release; oil and acrylic
make him kiss my pacifier, kiss my ring, he said it, himself, I can do anything to him,
blossom wherever I want, no more sorries, **** the nightstand, resembling: he will start to show me why he believes, almost wanted,
for months I floated around wanting to be his little girl, for once
I finally, felt he had took me in as his own: tongue, hands, eyes,
he's beautiful, beautiful and beautiful, his eyes, his cheeks turn red, he smiles
to ask for those linens, silks, raf simons, antwerp six, show me that quality and that price tag you so condone, not out of a want for material, but for proof and for repentance of your sins to me
circustry, tentistry, ancestry, history, recently

Do you ever listen to the sounds your stomach makes? What about the sighs and groans of a man when waking? Do you remember a time your body felt so heavy? Can you imagine frost decorating your arms?

Pretend you're feeling the burning bite of a winter's curse — feel the cooling sensation of hot water evaporating from your skin in an August's high heat. Take more of your smiles and sew them into another's face, another's fate — waves crash towards a aan-falling-het tower.

I'd ride the billows of your breath. I'd climb the thick vines that blossom from your pores, that bloom from your skin. I'd nuzzle against your jaw to soften me —  

to see your eyes soften when you look at me, to see your eyes light up when I walk in a room, to see your eyes light whenever I run up to you after you get home from a long day at work, I'd never beguile . . .

the wildest dreams, the charms, the memories . . . it's enough for me to question if I'm doing too much —  enough to make me question my ability and existence as a woman, a human, a being, a girl —I'm just a little girl.

To flutter, to bloom, to sparkle like glitter in the sea . . . to shine like two rotating eyes in the sky. Why can't I forever shimmer and glisten endlessly? Flashing and blinking and twinkling then burning then dying then no one would know that I was there.

The perfumed taste fills my mouth like a gas cloud: refusals to take another breath, refusing to look at you and see the things you think.

That's what she said: the sweet woman, Marian, that I'm "kinderlijke". Chocolates, sea sponges, coffee, and a sunny day in Antwerp.

On the train there, my man looked towards me to tell me how I’m many things to him: he can experience raising me, a child in a woman’s body, a human being tumbling forward like he is.

On the train home, I'd look towards my man to kiss me and me to rub him: gentle like the wind, burning like gin, stringing along like pearls on a vine.

as a somehow... perpetually
kissing the trough...
(that best... the spectacle of
a symphony of oinks and gruntling;
snorkeling-grit of stowing
earth with banknote promises:
like an imitation
of the dwarfian act of... mining)...
this debilitating fear:
   and kissing the feet of some
antithesis semite of
a god at the root of all temples...
i am tired of...
an arachnophobia
that has little or, rather,
nothing to do with spiders...
or a claustrophobia
that has little or no...
concern for confined space...
and such is time: relative...
that nostalgia is boasted about...
peacocking dawning sturt...
i want to live a day with
enough sufficient fear
to stage the proper: hormonal
stressors to play their role...
it's not enough to merely...
drink a numbing cushion...
         the will to life has
a precursor within the confines
of a will that never bothers
or teases the structures of
hierarchical power envy...
             i should have been
best designated for the role
of a bus-driver..
               it's not like i made
this sallow choosing of grief...
                 i wish for meeting friends
in a restaurant...
or neighbours in a supermarket
like the best of the best:
retiree...
                like the precursor years
are some new underlay of
Ultricht...
                 or Antwerp...
i'm tired of life...
this non-eventual safety seizing
plot...
              i want to marry death...
i can't begin to imagine
marriage with life: in that most
secluded sub-:
                               enim timor
                ex deus...
                 a sort of paralysis that
no seljuk turk or ottoman
hijacker care to mind...

             i'm terribly tired...
              that i wish for me death as prior
to the death of a mother...
that i sort of wield contortion
excavation loops in: "asunder":
that i cop-out...
when is it believed...
the fungus rot of the brain
without the transcending hallucination
prospects?

            my average my nuanced: "new"..
this antithesis achilles..
my southern average...
my mediocre...
           my left hook concerning broke...
time is... relative...
a death by carrying weight...
   but this... god no god...
               mors naturalis...

                 can't we find ourselves...
before... choking on...
the adventure of death:
the innocent died upon the cross...
            can't the same innocence
be shared with those willing
to make death more relative?
can't there be an unwillingness
to live this... caustic... retract rebellion
  persistence of mrs. quasi?
        
        there is absolutely no
compensation of arguments...
          my words: my little words...
        pauloverbis...
               i do advertise the prospect
of the thumb ruling in
favour of: by death confined...
i will allow the strategy of the less
exempt to rise to their highest
scope of invitation...

                         villain of words...
i am no better than the next:
and the next... no better...
                      i am subsequently
hardly a heart surgeon...
but i am also not...
a left-leaning activist...
             i carry my worth of life
on the posit for:
these words are debasing...
depressive... all the required
connotations of a negative spectrum...
because?
      death is a marriage...
             i am conscious of the:
          
quadratic!

geocentric / vs. heliocentric...
mors-centric / vs. vita-centric...

                     it really doesn't bother me:
some new Darwinistic attache of truth -
i have to be devoid of "truth"
come the: sun "above" the earth...
or the earth "beyond" an extension
of gravity... in linear...
the stars are but photographs...

it's such an itching itch
without a witness of a scratching that...
the very basic... mundane...
so censored... experiences of life...
have become...
iron curtain lifting...
   crown of thorns skidding...
                   this my little:
***** of a nuance...
last reflected upon within
the confines of some pickled
lungs... and some...
choicest of the choicest baltic sushi herrings.

does it always become a quest
to: pretend to play the violin...
when fiddling with one's beard?
esp... a best trimmed beard
self-trimmed outside of the confines
of the ottoman barber shop?

most probably...
   this self-loving of owning a beard...
all this self-loving of...
keeping a tighter trim on
the ***** region in eden...
   it's not like: i'm playing
with an advantage...
****-sure... not really...
but most certainly half the ****-envy
of a workaholic piston master
to pump pump and...
         push a ring closure on
the matter...

   it's just so easy when...
you can only tell the truth...
          
     and my mother complains...
"verbatim":
   'and how do you think i feel when
people talk about their children...
and i can't say anything about you...
and how do you think i feel when
they talk about their children
and i don't know what to say about you'...

'unless anyone asks...
and they are not inclined to talk to
me directly... tell them i exist'...

oh this sort of shame of conversation
visited the house today...
house: my prison...
2 hours pretending to be empty air
in the kitchen...
2 hours... perhaps teasing 3...
and my parents talked with
the parents of my contemporaries...

married: i don't know whether
happy... hell: i don't even know whether
left with: still interesting leftovers...
married though:
so life hijacked... moving on...
pristine relief from passing on...
                  the Dean Neil and Aaron...
and i'm like...
strapped to a corner of a kitchen
pretending to not be there...
   i sat there... looked at clouds...
the lasted long enough...
      playing rat...
        then i took out the permanent ink
felt-tip...
and drew happy faces on plum tomatoes
on cans...
and angry faces on onions
yet to be peeled...
          
   and i drew an imitation face...
on a milk bottle almost emptied and most
certainly gone south with mrs. sour...
like...
it was blur's: coffee and tv...
but... pig... sorry... big mistake...
the nose? i guess probably missing
in the original... mr. potato *******
a squiggly clean piglet...

   coffee and tv...
              take-over of guitarist singing...
the lead singer thinking of a...
    stow-away project:
                      a bit like what happened
with system of a down...

so now i know... mother calls out:
MATTHEW...
                  मआफऊ (M-A-F-U)...
terrible prank of surds...
                   perhaps add 'ebrew...
         (מַתִּתְיָהוּ)... sorry... no braille nikkud
of the ishraelites...
                    not ctrl + c / + p for...
    Larry Tesler: either...
    hidden vowels: (מתתיהו)
   except for the "unexpected" (ו)...
works fine... (מתיה) - and of course...
this is not a place for trivial matters...
kibbutz / shurek...
          the universe of yetzirah...
formation... who's inhabitants
                        are angels...
a pretty ***** antithesis angel sits
with a genius gizmo on one
of my shoulders... and a *******
devil on the other...
                    
point being: i wasn't there...
  so much for having to talk about me...
as one parent to another...
something to boast with...
something to bargain...
since... as some point...
people tend to exhaust their own...
self-orientating junctions of
webbing out...

to merely think isn't enough...
with the n.p.c. meme and what not...
res extensa matters as much...
       that i am: coming to realise...
men can fathom the rex extensa
concept more: the heliocentric model
better than women...
and their: yes yes... they can have
their res cogitans model...
but also... that geocentric model of affairs...

i'm too a hot-head and a rod...
filled with brimming emotional spaghetti...
i sometimes think: last...
2 hours in the kitchen...
drawing angry comic faces on onions
and mild neuter faces on milk bottles...
i had to...

   then i started to bewilder myself
by holding an egg in my hand...
   a chicken egg: some variation of
a philosopher's stone...
   and doodle i did... on this... favourite...
of an edible abortion...
i was so "crass" enough...
to itch... a quasi-giraffe donning...
a pseudo-shtreimel...
    and a... bloated... chess-board...
and some variation of cubism:
an imitation orb / circle...
   two lines and a line of "morse"...
and the thought...
perhaps the idea of a flat earth
is in no way an aid for...
reading a map... or g.p.s....
   but what if: the currently ascribed to...
form... is... as its orbit... oval?

petty questions: requisite of doodling:
of encompassing time as much as passing
it... since... the space i occupy will
neither spontaneously implode...
or explode: for a libra "question"
of improving my toll...
or disproving my bogus inquisitiveness...
as being... a labour of innocence /
a labour of love... a labour or...
missing the concept of serious matters:
necessarily undertaken...

oh don't mind me...
    who am i... to quest the question
of serious... study in science from
an angle of humanism...

i still think you need to keep oneself
humble.... beside copernican...
to navigate a car...
from england to poland...
via that spaghetti of towing-tie
and spaghetti of cement
surrounding Antwerp and the German
Rhine Valley precursor:
Dortmund... Essen... Duisburg...

the idea of "leveraging" truth...
no... lies... are worth leveraging...
given... fictive-esque inconsistencies...
truth is so *******...
it's... mono-dimensional:
uni-  no-no-dimensional...
         truth is a rude worth among...
peacocking liar...
hell: an ugly word...
            and hell is... never:
a "dasein"... claustro-phobe-cluster:
lost of wit and ****...
besides... the already missing...
                        ridicule...

DASEIN (there being...
there's being) - godzilla vs.:
                        JETZTSCHAUSPIEL!
now "drama": spectacle...
    
   and those... prischtine nails... d'ough done!

decipher...
             a bottle of rice wine vinegar...
yep... the chinese ideograms...

disclaimer... hello poetry doesn't allow
chinese ideograms...
to read with chinese ideograms...
see here:

     supposing i was "bored"...
"by the *****"...
and no... of course... no *****...
   best of tutti-frutti... boom-balloon...
quicksilver and...
              if i had time in a bottle...
          sweet dreams are made of these...

choke-chin-and-chew a linking
up with those 3 million hong kong lottery
winners from the...
revival of the bright-and-bored...
hemp'yre... of the broadening
the wit of a brrr brrr...

water:
      tablespoon:
               teaspoon:
     rice:
     white:
           vinegar:
              chicken?
         corn:
                sliced:
  common characters
in ingredient, marinade,
seasoning:
   sugar:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/15276526-nothing-ever-happens-to-bachelors...-by-Matthew-Conrad-a­dult

me... mandarin and myopia...
me and chinese and: best luck with a concept
of ABC...
the crude sounds... and all these...
elaborations of phonetic encoding?
these games of matchsticks...
x-rays... and chopper-chop?

pretending to cope with a psycopathic
lost pretending for lord-over "cwue"...
but these crude syllables and sounds...
and all the rest of it... being allowed to...
decipher in liquid squid amount of acid
and other... digestive monstrosities...

best no good: no good...
that's best... no good... that's best...
no good: nothing working around
shadowing inhibitions...at best:
no good... this is the only good...
my miser self in stençil... like...
Liberace's closet carnival!

ooh.... yeah!
ha ha! ******* "anonymous"... ha!

Remembering a dog


When I was young and for us not rich there was
navy academia you could learn engineering, navigation
and catering, with my eyesight I settled for catering
After going through the grades, I got a certificate that I was
a chief steward. a job which consisted of telling the cook what
to make, buying the food needed and to do the books.
The big tank ship, oh so beautiful, sailed from oil port to to
another oil terminal and boredom set in, I left the great ship
in Antwerp and after a week ashore I got a job
on an old freighter going into every port, you could think of
I was in my element; this was a perfect ship.
The officers were not going anywhere, no one wore uniforms
and bothered with titles.
On a French island, I have forgotten its name, a dog came onboard
unseen and since the storeroom was open it hid there
and I didn´t see it before we were on the open sea.
I took the dog up to the old-man he liked the dog it had a home.
Months later, when I was on another ship my old ship was
******* in front of us, the old-man was retiring taking the dog home,
the new captain didn´t care for dogs.
The dog remembered me, and there was a lot of kisses and cuddles.
I'm sure the little dog had a long and happy life seeing
green grass and trees.

An oil port

He is looking on to shore and sees an oil terminal
waiting for the pilot, he may arrive today or tomorrow.
Well he is not going ashore at this Arab port it is
usually boring full of men smoking water pipes talking
excitedly about the next revolution and he knows
as a white man, he viewed with suspicion.
He never understood a culture where women are cattle
sit indoors and wait to be pregnant again.
This is a society of men, and as such, they make a mess
of daily life.
It takes 12 hours to load the ship with crude oil, bound
for Antwerp, which is more like the home he understands
the people there can have a beer in a bar and not starred
at with hatred.
Mind, he knows well the white people have done much
the harm in this part of the world, nevertheless he dislikes
their culture, but he doesn´t care to understand them.