apologies, but i will not be abstracting people
as mere pronoun users,
i know i should, but i kinda like "painting"
and giving peoeple race, and differences,
i can't really establish what pronoun-bleaching
would do to, oh i don't know,
perhaps i'd be writing this...

back when i still worked as a roofer and was doing
a project in Greenwich,
  nice try, construction industry men don't
go to the gym... what a joy to remember my roots...
anyway...
    what was i saying?
   so i commuted from north east london
this this little village...
and it really has a feel about it that it is a village...
i went into the Greenwich waterstones
bookshop and spotted something interesting...
    a j. k. huysmans trilogy (beginning with la bas)
and ending with *cathedral, or something like that,
if i knew what the internet was saying,
i'd buy all three books...
     but i did the dumb thing of buying
the first book of the trilogy, that's always in print...
anyway, no small loss...
   and there stood sideways joseph roth's
the antichrist...
              i can't compare it to nietzsche work,
even though i should, given roth was jewish...
and i figured: if the concept is not originally
jewish and greek, and anti- is a prefix much
more easily understood these days with
the existence of anti-matter...
            than say... armilus...
    well... so i was commuting day to day,
and over the course of the project probably read
two of three books, roth's was one of them,
alongside nikos kazantzakis' blockbuster...
but something weird happened when i read roth
for the first time...
     sitting in this dockland train heading south
of the thames, a group of muslim "women"
spotted that i was literate,
     they sat, about 10 metres away from me...
but the word antichrist must have prompted them,
one just said out-loud: you're satan's *****...
huh?
   there i am, reading my own book not raving
mad reading it aloud, and there she has the prank
of associating a book to a very mysterious person
who riddles the bible being completed...
      mein gott: two world wars ever since nietzsche
wrote he was the person with the title kept
sorta on a whim for nearly 2000 years...
     and then two days ago my father has a car accident
and this hijab clad woman is driving,
  but she does a Pilate and doesn't take responsibility,
the passenger that's with her jumps out
   and gives my father his details
and the woman is pristine...
     a *******, what do you call it: sacred cow?
most pedestrians in england are treated as such...
  so she phones her son and gives the phone to my father
and her son says to my father: it's against
the law to phone the police, you can't phone them...
well... hey presto! we're in Saudi Arabia!
and this is what's worrying me...
no... nope... this is what pains me...
    i had to take my ego for a walk tonight...
i had to think a lot of ******* out,
how the ego would whimper and whine like a dog...
there's your "janus" / "contronym"...
ego... dog...
   the leash? i'm thinking with it...
and suddenly, clarifty, i can pierce it's *******
narrative and think about it... as any id might...
what i experienced was an ego-dispossesion...
   i lost it, it turned into an automaton,
robotic misery... hardly the angry Frankenstein monster...
i lost the care for an ego-embodiment...
i was dispossessed by it, robbed, thief! thief!
i needed to come back home and read
heidegger's aphorisms 174 through to 178 from
the ponderings (it would help that you read the
ponderings... after reading being & time)...
the pain i felt was very much akin to being British,
even though it's something i assimilated into...
which could mean that's it's the odd bit...
should i, shouldn't i feel some sentiment for my host
culture?
word are flying around the place,
they're calling it cultural marxism...
well... i come from a culture that had stated
marxism, period, i.e. supported by an economic model,
that worked, and would have worked,
had capitalism not done what capitalism does
naturally: compete!
   i'm watching these cultural marxists and, i think,
i'm watching penguins in a zoo...
  i don't know what to make of these marxists,
who aren't even leninists...
            where's the economic model?!
  
that's the problem of going to a catholic school
in england, attempting to stress multi-culturalism,
i even ojected to being confirmed ritually,
with a bishop from Brentwood,
sorry, too much Irish around the place....
i too thought i was about to say something in Gaelic...
outer-east london: a complete ******* jungle
of biodiversity...
     so did i misplace my allegiences?
to the tongue? to faking an ethnicity?
    of course i'm pisssed off, i spent the past 2 hours
walking the most mundane of walks,
bewildered why this woman in a hijab wouldn't
own up to causing a traffic accident...
i helped him will out the police forms,
and there she is, on paper, smug like some ****** mary
because i'm the one that really doesn't think
that Islam got Project Hair wrong,
me? personally? i think that woman's hands ought to
be covered,
     in thinking terms, a woman's hands could
get me more excited than a woman's foot...
but sure... hell... why not hair?!
              the last time i checked, normal people
have an aversion toward hair...
ever see that person almost vomiting when they found
a stranger's hair in their soup?
  that **** that grows on your hair is the only silk
you've got... how about a few toenail clippings
to boot? first thing a sane would think: ****! ****!
oh, we're going to get on... just fine, just fine...
   the next time i think about encouraging
an **** ******* position's worth of prayer
i'll be a ******* cardinal.
   what's wrong with taking responsibility?
why are Islamic women so immune to the tractātus
of law? where's the jurisprudence?
   i'd call it something more than diabolical...
you can really become a vampire when you're told
the lesson: those that thirst for justice...
  lesser leech...
            who gives a **** whether it was: "but a scratch"?
woman! take responsibility!
  pampered little coconut jugglers...
   now to think of it... leave those curtains,
and this one time: she was walking with a buggy
and a small child and she unveiled herself from
a niqab before me...
           the perfect arabian nightmare i could
have ever witnessed...
             i had long hair back then...
what she revealed from under that niqab?
wait... am i writing this in the times
when the French occupied the Holy Land and had
the first thirst / idea of a colony?
  
this is me, imitating punching a brick wall...
this is me... in a boxing ring...
bashing myself...
            this is me thinking about how man
has no capacity to usher in karma,
how man's concept of law is hardly cosmic,
how man is a kniving ******* that
deserves something beyond a heaven and a hell:
rather: a return to his self...
that's what i keep telling myself:
i don't want heaven, i don't want hell...
i, just, want, to, return, to, my, self...
    yes, that's a reflection,
hence the pronoun has no compound, i.e. isn't
a reflexive understanding for the fluidity of language
expressed by the concerning compound: myself.
perhaps that's just the beginning of understanding
the noumenon / thing in itself, or rather to counter
the fluidity of the word itself, since, evidently
it self makes no sense that could ever produce
a concept akin to the noumenon...

why wouldn't this woman care to give an inkling into
her concept of right and wrong...
she's driving the ******* car, she makes a doo doo...
pauper... **** up!
            i still don't know why it was about hair...
you like a stranger's **** in a soup?
   what's with this middle eastern fetish for covering it?
hey! beginning from 1986, am i sorta automatically
involved in a cult that has a vintage of ageing from
a **** of a camel a long time ago?
  no wonder the knighthood ceremony was initiated
by slapping a newly initiated knight across the cheek,
like i said, a woman's hand is more ******
than her hair...
      i'd say: take up ye care to don gloves!
and that, i'm sure, will never happen.

it's probably the most delicate thing a woman can possess...
a hand...
the rest is what darwinism cared to provide us with:
a black widow, a mantis;
and that's talking pure earnest about the matter...

listen, i spent the past two hours having the ordeal of
an ego... which i had to anti-narrate into theory...
yes, the id was helpful, is actually told me, or rather,
interrupted the ego from the narrative
to give me this *******'s worth of profanity
(and yes, with due reason; ever fill out a police form
concerning some accident? do that, then you'll be equipped
to read Tolstoy)...

so it was ego-possessiveness,
      the ego already thinks its eternally subject...
that's one of the implants...
eternity and god are inherent in ego,
   your heart means absolutely nothing when the ego
has been given certainity that it can't shake off...
what the ego isn't given is a unit of reason
that sees past it... the id...
in relation to dualism and the much active dichotomy
as alternative to an equilibrium of dualism
i will outrightly exclude the superego
  as nothing but antithesis to the ubermann theory
of overcoming man...
  and on their shoulder they once had
the epitomes of cartoon conscience, an angel and a demon...
but thanks to the superego: they had mama
on their left shoulder, and papa on their right shoulder...

just the mere act of shutting that thing up
was enough, and it was apparent,
that writing fiction could be to blame,
   writing fiction can be rightly guessed at
for levitating a condition of medical proportion
into the realm of mythology,
    we have already depersonalised the unit
of ego to the extent that it has become polarised,
bipolar, e.g., comes from a depersonalised
gravity of ego,
we're no longer in need to write books,
we're in a dire need to write our own psyches...
and it all stems from making the basic human unit,
bound to the privacy of thought,
as needing a system that outweighs the moral
stratum,
           what can a person actually be or become
to even dream about asserting that there is
a da-sein (i.e. something, somethingness)
          "happening"?
i feel that there's something worse than a second
nakedness emerging,
         it's this incapacity to move on,
it's a mental nakedness, i am more easily prone
to dress my body in clothes
than i am able to dress my ego in thoughts,
than can correlate adequately, and peacefully...
toward something akin to a symbiosis
that can reach a = status, rather than an
   ≠ or an ≈ status... ****! Aquarius!
isn't the ≈ symbol the basis for it?
oh hell, back into the zodiac...
              
     i know my ego can be a downer,
but at least that's who i am talking about...
aphorisms no. 174 through to 178?
i do odd experiments with books,
     this is the first of its kind,
i'm actually going to rattle-******* this book out
till it feels like having wanked it 20 times
in a single day... i'll write what i "feel",
funny word, that word feel...
you never get to use it these days,
man is more about hammering in nails than
saying: ooh... that hurts...
and we all know what happened to Jesus'
teaching... forgive strangers...
     make sure your former friends are
crucified up-side down...
                 that really went far...
                      i can just see him...
an oasis of bullet-proof clauses...
              about how to handle people...
give them l.s.d. unconsciously!
         then wait for actual l.s.d. to arrive
and then worry...
when they took to their Swiss bicycles...
and writing poetry... and eating a soft-boiled
egg... given the concern for cholesterol:
a hard concept to fathom: that runny yoke...
     never ate mine with salt, i always like
that idea of legalised abortion...
                and we can be just that...
so imaginative to consolidate being mammal
that we can fathom eating chicken eggs
as easily as abortions... runny yokes have no basis
for a morality, or a compass...
they just are... runny... yummy...
             i call yokes the male version of
a woman's fascination with chocolate...
  i think egg yokes are the equivalent of cholocate
for men as chocolate is for women...
or so the advert said...

aphorism 174: as language...

          aphorism 175:
              philosophy catching up to science,
akin to theology catching up to philosophy,
both condescending extracts
that end up with both of the extreme parties
dressing up funny.

aphorism 176: such that newspapers are
the natural preservers? i.e. the idea of historical
escapism.

      (toilet paper does, much much more,
than a newspaper actually provides,
   press freedom is a bit boring to be honest,
beginning with the need for a moral agent
that's less and less moral, and more prone to
darwinism, i.e. selective, which is also said via:
what's natural, in a more and more techno-savvy culture?)

aphorism 177: only as, a rural thinker unto
a rural thinker... a case of describing a perfume
of those thinking about a day after tomorrow,
   but more precisely:
  the day before yesterday that didn't involve them...
say, on the ethnicity basis,
  the talk of being inheriting from the form
of ancestry... how we cultivate cucumbers,
tomatoes, prejudices...
   which is why i'm a slav happily talking a tongue
that's germanic, an off-shoot saxon,
and hopefuly defending it.

aphorism 178:
         "everything great wavers and wobbles,
stands in a storm. the beautiful is difficult."
   Ezra too, with the last, alas.
     but it's true... what happened in england in the second
part of the 20th century was great,
  and it did indeed wobble past the storm into
a desert of retirement...
            a peaceful coming toward terms of
a natural agreement...
   the generation preceding mine enshrined in their
psyche an england they heard over the radio...
king crimson... all such artistic expressions
found a case to take root...
     how parasites never attack a feeble creature
and only take roost in a strong symbiotic partner...
once it was said england could resemble ancient greece,
and it did, from the second part of the 20th century...
but that ended...
               it's gone, i have inherited a communist
past, a marxism with a concept of money,
and economic policy that wasn't inherently competitive,
but it also wasn't a welfare policy of the Marshall Plan,
and all i get is this freakish counter-movement
known as marxism in culture...
   that's worse than marxism in economy!

it should be heartbreaking to say this,
but coming from a monochromatic society,
watching the death of communism...
     i could say it was perfect... but then i can't
given my grandparents have a secure pension plan
that the state provides... i like that joke,
i just said it, and it makes perfect sense...
there is much more of Pilate in the history
of the peoples than there is of Jesus...
washing my hands clean, the companies said,
meaning self-employment...
     unless you have a really hungry libido
you actually do start worrying about keeping up
the numbers...
  companies don't...
      it's a bit of a bollocking...
i come from what could be imagined as a safety
economics of marxism into a marxism of culture
that i simply can't comprehend...
              well: it did give "us" a sense of pride,
and a will to rebuild warsaw without any american
money...
        the russians just said: where's your pride?
do you want to take their money and have it easy?
and when i ask that question:
i just start thinking about arabs without their oily diapers...
oil diaper... not exactly black gold:
oil diapers...
             Ahmed gonna poo poo?
              &nbsp

I continue to be amused &
Captivated by Gabriel García Márquez,
His Love in the Time of Cholera,
Captivating me still.
His simple use of the name
“Bolívar,” por ejemplo.
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There is something uniquely Latin
About life in Latin America,
Once again, stating the obvious
For all the media-slain retards
Hovering around me.
Their never-ending enthrallment
With Strong Men,
Particularly when strength is
A measure of one’s honor,
Hizzoner,
Your honor,
To wit: Honor Killings.
In practice, a sober demonstration
Of the theory as it is practiced.
Americans—with swarthy exceptions—
Do unfavorably view most of us who
Can trace our ancestry to Southern Europe.
“Southern European,”
Itself a vicious racial slur,
And remains so north of Eboli,
No surprise that Christ stopped there,
According to Carlo Levi, writing off the
Il Mezzogiorno, beyond redemption.
Southern European:
Smug words you make them eat,
Throwing Greco-Roman Civilization
Up into their faces.
Athens & Rome--
Epitomes of culture and class--
Patricians, of course, yet
Skifoso bragging rights for all those
***** scratched plebeians of the mob.
But I digress.

Strongman Latino-Americano.
Some Bolívar, some José Martí.
Why not some Fidel?
¿Por Que No?
Tu compadre, Gabo--
Tu Generalissimo Cubano.
How could you miss, Gabo?
Castro lobbying for you, twisting the
Surreal & squirrely qualms
Of Nobel Prize Nabobs.
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You owe that bearded strong man, Gabo.
Fidel Castro: Maximum Leader to be sure--
Like Omar Torrijos & Noriega--
Panamanian Reds,
Tasmanian Devils!
And Sonny Barger –
Dubbed Maximum Leader,
By Hunter S. Thompson's Hell's Angels:
(The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs RetroBites: Hunter S. Thompson & Hell's Angels (1967) - YouTube ► 6:21► 6:21 www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccyu44rsaZo‎ Jul 7, 2010 - Uploaded by CBCtv Hunter S.Thompson defends his book against an irate Hell's Angels biker.)
Come Perón, come Hugo Chávez.
But, Hark-a-lark,
Let’s wait a sec
Lest we forget
Cristina Fernández de Kirchner,
One tough, Argentine *****,
Illustrating again for all men
The root of all machismo:
La Mujer!
The ***** that bore him;
Nurtured & nursed him.
****** & ****** him.
La Mujer!
(La mujer sin cabeza (2008) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/ tt1221141/‎ Rating: 6.4/10 - ‎1,815 votes Directed by Lucrecia Martel. With María Onetto, Claudia Cantero, César Bordón, Daniel Genoud. After running into something with her car, Vero experiences a... I get 7 cents for each link, each hit, making poetry pay for once, the savvy poet, a marketer finally figuring out how to avoid death in the gutter, a death penniless, diseased, babbling and insane.)
Yes, the woman,
The woman, who loved him,
That widow who buried him.
The woman—at any particular
Time of life, in his life—
The woman who just happened to be there;
Was just hanging around
During that brief, emphatic,
Conversation lull.
Genesis got it wrong:
Adam was a stiff rib of Eve,
Made from sterner stuff,
A creation conceived in torture,
Reared in disequilibrium.

Women create the men they touch.
Strong women.

In the midst of sea, we scream
Where are humans?
Where are super humans?
None to respond to our desperate scream,

In the midst of a sea, we are
A deserted island
One that can most likely be submerged or
Reach shores unlikely
By the events, we remain helpless
Being human less and with inhumanness



We, at the brink of death & last inch of hope
Expect miracles and wonders
Nature fails us
Kills our expectations, fills more sorrow

Nature fills our body with
Slow approaching death,
We remain as a secluded mass of useless disposed waste,
On a world that has a place for all the flora & fauna


Modern nations-the epitomes of peace
Wash their hands away remain
A hopeless, useless, helpless puppet

Ostracized from our ancestral land
Vehemently opposed and reluctantly accepted
We remain a displaced alien
In their eyes.

There are nations,
But where are humans? Where are humans?

A hope puts us to survive,
Where we leave a message,
As we get back to the graves.

We send the waves of final message; we fall,
Not as a disposed waste,
But as a Phoenix that falls as a nutrition,
For the soil,
To revive an infinite and eternal humanity
That stands tall as an undestroyable banyan tree
Unshakable on any crises

For humanity, we give ourselves
As dare-doers and daring self-killers.
Let's harvest the human hearts
With the ever rising flames
And give back
Our future generations the homes.
We lost and dreams we wished

With a thin ray of distant hope,
We dream to give our future generations
A world that has no,
Hopelessness of being helpless.
We assert
We are helpless, but not hopeless

Cumulonimbus
In crimson blush
Glowing healers,
Smoothly redresses
My day’s weariness
Its billowing pillars,
Pride’s epitomes
In shapely domes
My worries offload,
I feel so free
Rid of agony
On a joyous road!

On dusty, aging shelves
rest countries of minds
drying in paper jars:
mummified in culture,
embalmed in ink,
reincarnated in conscience.

Go forth! Adorn walls and altars
to honor epitomes of thought:
precise rhetoric of Socrates,
vivid horrors of Dante,
articulate utopias of Moore,
cryptic lessons of Sa'di,
heroic voices of Shakespeare---
all epiphanies of poets
and projections in prose
collected together.

Yet if ignored and neglected,
such wisdoms are wasted,
and intellectual temples
aimed to inspire and instruct
remain silent, standing crypts.

How sick and green it creeps inside,
and brings dark thoughts and fears beside,
a beginning so pure and new,
that no true reason could eschew,
the envy that epitomes,
the horrid beast called jealousy.

It grasps with darkened tendrils black,
and seeks in fevered mind to wrack,
all semblance of humility,
and give to greed stability.
To clutch the heart in taloned paw,
and feed all hope unto its maw.

you are the echo in places after everyone's sound has gone.

you are the reluctant resonance in air between breaths.

you are the leaving that's overstayed its welcome.

you are the racket in deprivation of company.

you are the uproar after music has ceased.

you are the chord eternally reappearing.

you are reverberations of want, of lack.

you are sweet tinnitus in every hush.

you are every absent reoccurrence.

you are epitomes of entirety.

your gale still lingers.

but you do not.

you do not.

you do.

not.

There is a storm brewing on the horizon.
The shadow covets my harbor,
unimpressed with all the shelter I have sought to avoid it's black cloud claws.
This sickening frame of perspective
soaks up the sorrowful rain;
convinced there is nothing outside of painful growth.

The thunder fills up any space for other thought
and I am overcome with the angry vibrations of particular nature.
Other roots sing out to the rain with acceptance and understanding.
I look to their placement and try to pray alongside the healthy,
but just as contentment ascends past my roots
lightening thrusts it's late night epitomes deep into the soil.

Oh, song of few fragile petals,
although you have been over pruned by unconscious hands,
you are not of that love.
Containing so much more than black eyes and regretted births;
remember the newness of every day.

Keep repeating those memorized murmurs of broken poets,
but keep the beauty of communication
let the mesmerizing misery fall back into the sky.

Tapestry colored,
take the tick out of my heart and let me bleed out.
My eyes are shallow wells for a face that needs help.

                   A body that sees no reason

                                 taken back
                                 tied down
                              tucked under

                   A b-b-b-bomb blasting off

                                   seconds

                    before the big hand could

                  cover her own clocked head.
                                  
Here no mantle is sacred.
ripples in our veil unfolding
each crease, streak and stain seals a moment:
Her love suppressed and Her faded light
the fabric of one life,
the symbol of many,
measured against the steps of
indefinite epitomes.

And tell you I shall...
Of boundaries I wish not to speak
for all boundaries are sins
sins committed against one's potential.

Of rules I can tell tales
concerned with scrutiny
and enamored with safety
your ancestors placed them
where you now find them.

Tales span eons
tales spawn demons
tales scrawl boons
and tomes
and epitomes

On the present
and the way things are,
could have been
or would have been.
Many a scholar and clerk lay martyred or maimed

It is a dreadful subject my friend
for it bends the very fabric of humanity
and within its confines, no room exists for morality
and under its hood burns all reality.

On God.... Well God is and isn't
any continuation of the previous fragment would be a lie
as I know not what God is or isn't, only that God exisits.

want to become an artist? get ready for poverty, and get ready to feel uncomfortable writing personae, where no form of narration will give you a good night's sleep, esp. "first person" narration; get ready for many contradictory revelations, and the rudest form of mockery: ridicule. get ready for the lynch mobs of the digital age of frustrated writers who, frustrated, antagonise; get ready to realise that poetry, compared to other mediums of writing is only the bare minimum, the sheer nakedness of it, the bare minimum.*

i find it most peculiar that a once
mighty and budding colonial nation,
nay, nation expanded into
a colonial empire, should suddenly
implode and craft a mini-commonwealth
inside its boarders, and become
so blind with self-righteousness
as a means to erase the past, and see
itself as a champion of all kinds of freedoms,
of all kinds of necessary obligations
to provide the epitomes of human dignity,
as to not offend / provoke, all stiff-upper-lip
hush hush, to see the monochromatic
audiences at large stadium concerts no
later than mid-nineties: but what the hell
do i know, i'm just a plumber, a plumber
to the mammoth economic class of england
like in the olden days of marx and engels.
i'd change the anthem though:
poland a cinder after the raging flames of
prussia austria and russia - dictated our
extinction - a cinderella of europe -
and for its once proud ally - now a game
of blame when unified for the mini-commonwealth;
or as the irish say so well established in this
land, and esp. after the good friday treaty:
integrate little cinderella boy, integrate,
learn the language, and customs too, but afterwards
return to your people, and live in our
great multi-cultural society, under our
former masters' brow, in a segregated multi-cultural
society of the many death circle pockets,
live by all means, but do not be relevant with
us or our masters on a friendship base.
come the days when neighbour is no longer a neighbour,
should a neighbour be the least of a borrowed
cup of sugar, or anything of such -
the tinniest categorisation of aid.

before i begin, a pre-scriptum...
         in my hand, this minute?
                   what a rare delight...
the Beauties of Sterne:
                                with some account of his life...
printed for J. Walker,
published by J. Walker, Paternoster Row &
   J. Harris, St. Paul's Church Yard...
London... 1811!
    and being a big "fan boy" of the fiction
that a bibliophile might have an adventure:
Roman Polanski's the Ninth Gate...
   now, for a book that's... 208 years old?!
it's not in bad shape... sure...
the hardcover is missing by a half...
but all the text is intact...
              obviously colouring of the pages...
but hey... i'm not a museum...
             the book is still fiddled with...
ha ha, the opening page with a picture
reads as follows:
   there are worse occupations in this world,
than feeling a woman's pulse...
perhaps a quote about... insensibility?
   it reads as follows:
       it is the fate of mankind, too often,
to insensible of what they may enjoy at
the easiest rate (sermon XLII)...
   besides, lucky for me youtube continues
to glitch from time to time...
    now looking more in line with channels
than individual artists...
   notably? Harakiri Diat (channel)...
eh... :wumpscut, the soft machine,
demdike stare, vomito *****, feindflug
weren't enough...
          turns out... there's more...
beyond penta, matutero and GloOMy
PhAntOM... well, please, allow me:
   filmmaker - the love market,
              la ***** bianca - demian...
hell... if you want to venture into the past?
i know one band that freaked out
my ex-girlfriend... gong - flying teapot...
or that song by greenskeepers, lotion...
               i thought i'd never see someone
become freaked out about music...
curios and also highly curious, yes...
but freaked out?
                 primitive knot - puritan...
demolition group - you better...
          1986 Yugoslav minimal electro...
Bruce Roach - Gut...
              and as it turns out...
    i look from this corner of the internet and find
absolutely no need to delve into
the dark web... install Tor...
           if you really want to...
  you'll find all you need... but you need
to sift through a bibliography of a book prior
to... it's all here... this sort of material
has an inbuilt filter... it filters out
             mainstream consumers of content...
i should know...
    3 websites that banned me,
1 suspended me...
                   i crossed the threshold...
    normie poetic: outcast *****...
           yet i still sometimes happened to chance
upon a will...
           lao che - soundtrack (the whole album
is decent) -
              


.i once heard it was based upon the following maxims: bogatemu wszystko wolno (the rich are allowed anything), siła razy gwałt (force multiplied by ****)... well... over the years, that much was true... but then i conjured a reply: nie wszystko wolno bogatemu (not everything is given an allowance to be expressed by the rich) and wola odiąć gwałt (will, having substracted ****): otherwise it's still wola razy gwałt (will, multiplied by ****).

****, i only just "woke" up from
this game,
you know that game...
oh i'm pretty sure you know it...
it's called
   pass the jew along...
   rudolf höss
      cited, among the list:
ibrahim ibn yaqub,
         radhanites (there's a surd
H in there, rad-'anites)
    casimir III...
esp. the latter...
           so.. give the current h'americans,
we're still playing the globalist
nomad game of: juggling the jews,
yes, no, maybe?
so my mother tended to
two old jewish women,
because, just "because"
their sons were active in
the "economics" of passing law
and techno-literacy?
oh... right... i "see"...
                            i... "see"...
in defence, of the "neglected" ones...
makes perfect sense,
de facto 51,
                  area 51 was always
a propaganda convert term
for Israel, rather than some area
bound to Nevada, wansn't it?
wasn't it?
                      ask me again
one year from now,
did we live peacefully among the jews?
they'll tell you the joke...
didn't the jews shoot,
with riffles,
   with bent barrels / sights
aiming at themselves rather
than the nazis?
       no, no soap jokes when
it comes to yews...
the yids...
      everyone in poland just
wondered: why so pacified?
        so blatant in walking into
an inferno?
                      you know...
it took Poland longer to surrender,
while being attacked by both
the Germans and the Russians,
than it took for the Fwench
to be attacked by the sole effort
of the Germans?
    funny... that...
                               i truly admire
some nazis, for their ingenuity...
notably? erwin rommel...
   lothar von arnauld de la periè(re)...
(subtle, i give you that one,
per-y'eh...
                 'old 'ack 'old 'ck
   h-b-h-b,
                                    rein in...
otherwise perié... ergo without
                                           the -re)...
michael wittmann...
and i'm a ******...
      **** me...
they didn't bomb paris,
might as well state:
they also didn't bomb
  marienburg or most of danzig...
Warsaw? taken down,
levelled, brick by brick,
        until no brick stood on brick...
              what?!
i thought the western capitalist-ico
communist insurgents
wanted target practice?
          i thought these people
wanted nazis, no?
          i'll admit... tiki torches?
you must have never looked
at european football hooligans...
tiki torches?!
you having a bbq?
            never heard of flares?        
- mind you...
you know what's worse beside
beind ridiculed?
having your intelligence
insulted...
i.e. do i look like someone
who managed to ****
your mother with a *******
harmonica,
or, am i, bound to the responsibility,
of your parents playing
the irresponsibility card,
attempting to convey a child
into existence aged circa 50
circa 45,
and what comes out is
an autistic cucumber?!
    **** me...
try giving ****** lessons
to circa 50 year olds;
and now the paradox...
   "i'm" the "schizophrenic"...
cool cool, coolio...
     i'll just hide in that "harem's"
worth of a brothel with
the prostitutes who tell
me they get s.t.d. checks on
a regular basis, o.k.?
_____

what am i to add to this?
not much, is there...
was the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald
ever great?!
  how satisfying it is to be unable
to please the crowd....
words, after all, are not bread...
how one wishes
for an anathema rather than
a martyr's embrace...
            one begins to imagine...
then one loses interest...
then...
                    peering through
the eye of a needle
watching a camel walk through...
one spots something outside
the realm of the metaphorical miracle...
do i have to?
      what if i remain to this side
of the eye of the needle?
what riches do i have that i cling to...
books & music...
does that make me rich?
what are the sort of riches where either
people plunder readily (music),
or do not engage with to begin
with?
who are ready to read...
i can claim to be a book thief...
i stole two books from my high school
library... the quran and the scarlet &
the black by stendhal...
            "stole"... i extended their
licance of being borrowed...
how am i rich: if my riches are the riches
no one would want to steal?!
i am rich... though...
               but i am rich in a both
materialistic / non-materialistic paradox
frame...
                what i own no one wants to
steal! why steal a first cheap edition
of a dickens' novel if you're not going
to read it!
              
       **** **** ****.... if they were such
philistines... when blitzing London,
why did st. paul's remain intact?
   "coinicidence"? i don't think so...
and why did they steal all those
art-works? again, "coincidence"?

                    they were people:
i find it uncomfortable to suit them up
in transcendence,
to be: epitome evil...
  to be the übermensch...
                   they loved art as much
as they loved being the antithesis
of the golden horde: gucci, dolce & gabbana
zz top: well dressed men...

     nazis loved art and fashion,
by far the best dressed army in the world
and history...

   ol' herman and otto came back
from the eastern front to a scared wife and mother...
people! they weren't mythical creatures...
the nazis can hardly become
chimeras as they become in the minds
of pseudo-communists of the western lands...

they are hardly the epitome of evil,
i know the 21st century narrative
deems them: "the perfect example"...
come on... they're not evil embodied
with not subsequent examples to be given
to... historical capitalism of evil:
there's always someone waiting,
some group of people to stage
a competition libra... and they will...
overcome the nazis...
it's only a question of ingenuity /
imagination...
           gas chambers was only industrial...
it will become personal in the years to come...
methodologically trained cultured
barbarians woken from a slumber...

the nazis were not: philistines...
   in no defence: didn't they speed up the creation
of the state of israel?
   didn't they? **** uncle:
   lavrentiy pavlovich Beria is going to state
the matters differently?
like hell he is...

        my family also suffered in that war...
sure, not in a concentration camp:
but on the front...
             there's even a joke that my
grandfather remembers:
the jews were shooting with bent nozzles
of riffles...
   as he also remembers two ss-men
who he asked for sweets,
and they would give them to him,
he'd as them: herr! bitte bon-bon!
   sweets so sweet that he would have
to rinse his hands under water
to unglue them from the sickly in-between...
how all the insurgent soviet soldiers
were teenagers and preferred to
sleep in pigstys and among the goats
in the hay...

how did the nazis become mythological
i will never understand,
at uni i had a **** history teacher,
canadian, she really liked my essay
on napoleon... how he was a great
strategist...
akin to?  

   erwin rommel wasn't a ****...
erwin rommel was, erwin rommel...
a great strategist...
        am i supposed to thrive in this
current year of polarized *******?
it's the current topic,
i can't escape it,
  sure, i'd love to have a Wordsworth
moment, lurking in me,
or an anna akhmatova breakthough...
instead?! i'm given this sort of *******
on a platter,
  and all that's missing are the wedges
of lemon and the eager oysters to
be gulped down... lucky me!

no, i don't like how the nazis are misrepresented
as both the übermenschen:
these mythological epitomes of evil
(no greater evil is to come? really?!)
and at the same time
as philistines: they stole art,
they ensured that critically cultural
documents of architecture were left
undisturbed... st. paul's cathedral...

         it's not like some otto or moritz
didn't come back home to a wife
and children... no...
he came back to the shadow cult
of the ******* hanging over him...

you know what the most haunting experience
i have ever experienced was?
Ypres... world war I site...
visiting a german cemetary...
compared to the allies cemetary?
**** me, what a meagre sight!
           the allies were burried with marked
graves, each man to his own cross...
the german burial ground?!
  mass graves....
eh: one marker: 200 bodies in one pit...
                 and here's the 21st century with
games about shooting: zee nat'zees...

   just visit the world war I cemetaries...
the ally cemetaries? square miles...
each man with his white cross...
german cemetaries? as mass graves go...
one marker per 200+ troops...
so... not that much space required...
less: bombast!
               pride & prejudice /
   pomp & circumstance...
   which the english speaking world is...
of the latter convenience to suit the narrative.

to reiterate...
   as a ******... the whole german fetish
isn't my kind of gig...
what with my grandmother being born
on the front... given opiates at an early
age so she would not cry and allow
the soldiers to locate her and my gread-grandparents...
but...
   they were the best dressed army in
the history of warfare...
they were not philistines and they certainly
weren't the mongolian golden horde...
i.e. they stole art, notably jewish artwork...
and if a luftwaffe squadron were to drop
a bomb on st. paul's? they'd probably
be shot...
  after all... Posen wasn't destroyed,
Breslau wasn't destroyed...
        Danzig wasn't destroyed...
Cracow wasn't destroyed...
             o.k., half of Warsaw was,
but we know why that happened
(or at least i do... idealist students who
thought they could fight the enemy
with slingshots and air-pistols)...
why? the Germans were simply thinking:
oh... we'll just be moving back...
i once explained it to myself...
they weren't exactly some mythological
grand evil template...
so i started thinking about them as:
Hans von Seeckt...
  or Otto Hertz...
              or some other german random
soldier...
      well... you should travel to Ypres,
Belgium... and visit a German cemetary
from war world I... then visit
the allies graveyard...
       each soldier, individually buried...
with his pwetty pwetty weißkreuz -
mostly named...
                 now visit a german cemetary...
mass.... graves...
                they just dumped them,
heaped them...
                        to me they were people...
you can't exactly reason with a mythological
evil - an archeological evil,
   an archetypical evil...
          for an archetypical evil?
try the nuclear family...
                         ******... that sort of thing...
child abuse... too many actors
were involved in this story,
too many mistakes, too many naive blunders...
evil on this scale is easily diluted...
which is why it's taught as history,
in schools...
   no one will teach children about...
oh... say... the Wiener Blut scenario...
   Josef Fritzl...
                    i'm pretty sure this will not be
taught in a history class...
                or... the H. H. Holmes Hotel story...
but it might become a jack the ripper
tourist-fetish... might it not? well, it already is.

I've written and read
poems about the stars
and how they were
so fascinating,
empowering
and ultimately,
unreachable.

I've heard stories
about angels and saints;
Their goodness,
nobility and purity,
serving as epitomes
of what Man could
and should be.

But the saints,
they were once sinners
and there are angels
who fell from grace.
Stars that turned
into black holes,
nothing is safe.

Falling is inevitable,
even for the untouchable,
and what we believe to be
unreal and ethereal.

A pessimist always
views the blot
in the flashy moon
but ignores its amazing beauty
even in the blot
always hunts up the dark clouds of
despair and sorrow
but lays aside
the smiling hope of ray
he considers the dark clouds
as epitomes of
annihilation and cataclysm
but defies the milky showers
of happiness and prosperity
in the dark clouds
he will never know that
happiness is only real when shared
and happiness is a journey
not a destination
and an optimist always
beholds the beauty of the moon
and in its beauty
meets supernatural visions of
righteous god
perceives that supernatural events
always have a logical explanation
and that almighty god
showers the blessings of
happiness and prosperity
exists with belief that
humanity was neither annihilated
nor could be destroyed
and always prays to supernatural power
for a prosperous society
blessed with harmonious relationship
among human beings
that are peace-loving

(By Kishan Negi)

I cannot compare
Your swift actions
To the cool breeze.

I do not have the
Linguistic abilities
To describe your eyes
As the epitomes of beauty
I could get lost in.

I cannot fathom
How others
Can so gracefully
Liken your hair
To the rustling wild grass.

But I can whisper
To you
Over and over again,
"I love you."

Rare gems born of Mankind gifts to humanity.
Perfections of heaven's creations.
Angels with hidden wings earth's tenants.
Like petals of flowers pride of the garden,
As to irokos the standing glories of the forest,
So they are in the land of men exalted.

They are tenacious, judicious, meticulous and courageous.
Lovable, adorable, teachable but indomitable.
As melody to songs,
Music to souls,
And Whispers to evening wind.
So they are to mother June.

Gentle and kind sophisticated and phenomenal.
Their hearts are but of gold and ways divine.
They are road pointers, Motion movers,
Light bearers and trailblazers.
They are attention commanders, collections of respect.
Epitomes of beauty narrations of handsome tales.

They are the codeless code of pleasure locked in a wordless wonder,
The hive of treasure no dragon can plunder.
We are the Junites born of mankind,
Gifts to humanity.
HAPPY BIRTH MONTH TO ALL THE JUNE BABIES.

Swans once flew,
Over blossoming red roses
And their tainted white feathers,
On broken wings of marriage

The bruises of a first love,
A fall in a summertime
On springs of frozen tears

The lover's castle by the river of memories
And buried emotions of a past,
Covered in a large painting by the hallway

That hearts bled,
Eyes watered, and skins, sweaty,
Our pathetic efforts to mend the burning bridge

So now, strained by the wrinkles of age,
We stare through these broken glasses,
Our wishful thoughts, carried by the mountain winds
To the land of the never was

That epitomes of our youthful fantasies,  
Lying under olive trees
Living among the stars,
We may savour,
The last smiles, and breath

It's the hardest thing to admit.
To face facts and contemplate on turning off the switch.
Every time I come close, something inside me says stop.
Which just leads to inevitable loss.
Because getting a taste of friendship without expectations, actually leads to me expecting we'd have that forever.
But these feelings don't come easily.
It took so much of me.
And I fumbled, and I faught,
Which caused you to flee.
I hoped for more.
I hoped that you'd be the ocean to my shore.
Always being the rush of current, guiding me to steady ground.
And I know
I know I have that for myself.
Epitomes and ****.
I wish it wasn't so easy for you to quit.
I'm capable of being my own sound.
I'll always wear my jagged crown.
Maybe I saw someone who wasn't afraid to get splinters while tearing through the thorns around my throne.
Feeling is just not a good feeling to me.
Because I was destroyed by the same fluttering.
And that was bad, but this is worse.
Because the destruction came in other ways, but I knew that there was something else.
And the constant question on my mind, is if you ever even cared at all?
And wondering if I even knew the real you.
Why is it always that the one person we don't want to even think about, we can't stop writing about?
I guess it's just finally time to say enough is enough.
The wondering feeling is torture.
It's rough.
I guess here's to hoping I have the strength to give up.
I guess it's true what they say, the thing worth holding onto wouldn't have let go in the first place.

i recognise a mediocre take to verse, this is a mediocre take to verse, i know it is, because i'm not as drunk as i'd like... it's too apollonian... to coherent... not juice... not frenzy, no tornado; basically nothing but the fact that i've been listening to you-tube "creators" talk crap, about whatever it is they talk about.

what has *respect for someone,
have in common with
loving someone?
nothing...
     an old man once
uttered to me:
i still don't know how
to love,
  i don't know what
love is!
well...
        me neither...
to me love is a wild
relationship that lasted
half a year,
spanned three countries...
and ****,
the *** was wonderful...
easing her cramps
on her period
while doing it in the bath...
sour milk
              on ******...
that was love...
   but love is much too
mingled with ***...
       and that's fine...
it doesn't last for
          more than a year,
if by miracle, it gets
to a year...
you see...
     respect is so much
more necessary
       as an "alternative"
to the epitomes
   of cohesion between
two strangers...
   the lesser respect?
      courtesy,
       or in the fine details?
manners...
              to me, that's
the definition of love...
    i'm not going to shove
my **** up your ******,
all i'll be doing is whispering
into your ear,
   and that's not
         even tounging it...
so there, that's love...
god, i hate love poems,
   the whole genre
                 of love poetics...
if it's only: how you feel,
and not how throbbing and
barbaric your limp sergeant
can become a copper-statue
and penetrate (akin to
       the knitty-gritty
                  of ovid's verse)?
as i've known to begin -
you learn love by respecting
old people...
     and then you work
your way down...
        you don't really get
to learn babies...
  you learn the tactic of turning
into a cushion,
   or the first man
         to step on the moon...
you don't learn love,
you learn tenderness...
           if there's a love to begin
with... you learn it
   in how you treat old people...
the same fragility
         you see in babies...
even though the cradle
  is that of death, and not
that of the yet-to-be-explored...
      just look how the supposed
  "love" looks...
it requires vampires,
warewolves, fiction...
               i too don't know
what love is...
   having visited a *******
i think the argument is secure,
respect counts above all of what
"love" offers...
             i'd rather show respect
than the utopian "free-spirit"
   hippy jargon of "love"...
                           respect can satisfy
more people with a greater
number of instances,
  than, this so-called love,
    in a bedroom,
      or in a relationship...
well, sure, atheism and god,
fair **** enough...
                              i'm a-amorous...
ugh... typical, the sophists' take on
the cartesian "equation" -
state the "i am" first,
                to keep talking...
the hi, my name is...
           bob the goldfish,
in saying that,
  nietzsche reinvented sophistry,
   and grounded the basis
           of the rhetorical
stronghold...
   he inverted cogito ergo sum,
  into sum ergo cogito...
       annoying as ****...
      in the reverse people
     always have to
identify themselves as:
such & such, so & so...
                        it's a great bullet-point
system to just keep on talking...
on & on, & on...
  but that's how sophistry works...
you invert the cartesian
   equation...
     picked up by sartre...
   that pickle of:
existence pre- essence -
                   the nietzsche quote?
in one of the footnotes
  in human, all too human...
               sum pre cogito...
        and that's true... for babies...
   you can't tell me that
the essential humanity exists inside
a baby,
   given that the baby
can become a non-essential human,
e.g. a murderer...
  but then here's the problem...
  there's no such thing as a "non-essential"
human being...
             paradox... even
****** is necessary...
                              but sartre
expands on nietzsche's
    cartesian inversion...
  but in existentialism nearing
its end...
       sum = exitence
     and cogito = essence...
        meaning?
   the essential human being is a being
that can think...
                  to be human is
to be able to think,
  however genius, or however stupid...
   stupid... yes... but not *******,
i.e. not having the capacity of
   cogitans per se, id est ego
             (thinking in itself, that is, ego);
it would be easier
   to show a blind-man heaven
and blind the seeing when stepping
a foot into the realm...
           it would be easier
   to allow a deaf-man the heaven
of music,
   than it would be to let a man of hearing
to see past dyslexia.

oculus per oculus - otherwise:
ear for a year...
a cherry pickled
and a cucumber sloppy
over an iceberg...
dicta: desired limbo...

otherwise: mollusks'
adventures in
the domain of sluggish:
via... no loitering
beside an echo
of: the loitering
around a figurative
sea...

         for an eye for an eye:
but give me van gogh's ears!
will there be...
    a burn agony of
deaf when cheese grating
and sizzling...

cut my ear off:
  the four horsemen of the apocalypse:
and that one
steadying a donkey's gallop...

cuts the ear off and sees
van gogh in a cubism of psychedelia...
the best greek / albanian will know...
spank a dozen morbid quasi
alt junction of:
reserving your place upon
the descent of a new kitchen...

granny grins... and granny sows
the grim architecture of an amiss...
  befriending shadows...
stating: toward the junctions
of reverse kleptomania:
the trench is not a grave...

            texan vector of blue-gushing
auxiliary vendors of...
that liquid breath...
                  by midnight i am no
cry of jurisprudence...
given a heart is a wheelchair
and the antihero is given...
a lollipop of Foucault...

blue suave within the confines
of the plethora of spices...
              because the miracle
of ginger and turmeric on the joints...

some variation of a time stopped...
a history is a corpse with
a breath of puffing ash...
and the suicides have to live
in Weimar Berlin...

           it's not that there's a fixation
on joke:
   discouraging...
a bureaucracy of capitalism like
that of socialism - one hand washes
the other...
two grand gestures of a narrative...
buttered side of the toast dropped
lands face-palm first...
                smothered bottoms up...
to this whirlwind cocktail
of events: my little world
of some variation of kafkaesque
personal:
                   it's hardly any argument:
genesis economics...
the litigation of processes that
end up being either scrapped or...
somehow borrowed from
obscurity:
                 a blockage of details
that heave no narrative except
a shrapnel guise...

                          this... thespian autocracy
over the arts...
we're all expected to write for free...
or... because it's free:
everyone is expected to do so!
no matter...
            i can hope to find
as much of the same procrastination
and anathema in my own
self-loathing i.q. quotas
of diminished replica responsibility...

            the british did save
the eastern indians...
    hell: the pyramids were kept...
because of their cuisine...
            a grand architectural people
came across a ***** of an eden
of spices...
not exactly scurrying for fruits...
forbidden or not...
the death of poetry came with:
a "nuance": sentence! poetic justice!
karma-rhymes?!

the blatant use of black cardamom...
cumin seeds...
"give me curry" in south america...
i.e. chimichurri!
advent of worship to the people
of a past that return to these isles...
like... a silk road camel caravan...
implosion of the seas!
clearly!
             no other year 0...
                    out of circumstances
that history allows...
nostalgia for the 1960s in england...
or 1950s h'america...

            nostalgia and the concept
of butterflies: dressed otherwise:
some variation of adjective to not
loiter around a noun like: concept...
something to expose a tautology
of misnomers in the riddle of a person
not accustomed to rhetoric:

            lay me to bed: body farthest...
mind agitated... come the agony
of being sentenced with a midnight
in an armchair; lay me to bed...
you have no honour: for you have no
reputation...
believe me: this is the least
of what ambition might desire...
consider... an arbeit macht frei work
ethos... a continual stream of 5am wake...
and those demands of
honest work: not the sort of work
of loitering...
         loitering like excesses
of libido: by office alone
of insignia procrastination...
       e.g. in a supermarket...
               could the security guard...
"take me"?
              i don't think so...
i would care if it was the end of the 19th
century and it was somewhere
like Colorado...

let to live...
   the dead have already fathomed
blisters of imprint with oysters
to tease a crab bucket 's worth of
a mounting pressure from
faking mountain with pyramid...

my what a...
******* of 11pm that any other day
would not give up...
me... exfoliating...
with: ambitions concerning Proust...
one up from a tease of Flaubert...
the darling the darling...
you will never mind a continental
writer cite Dickens...
   such an anglophonic extreme of...
   credible: furtherance?
no... not across the tadpole stream...
perhaps across the pond...

          not much to think about:
had i been born... 40 years ago...
                  i'm just sifting through the dust
and limp little richards
and ****** pillz-me-ups...
        and... i guess...
watching a stripper is a bit like
making epitomes of homosexuality
disguised in a well-off attire...
or... making concerns for attention
to detail... at the local butcher's...
however splendid the meat:
the "meat"...
geisha slender itchy tip-toeing quasi ballet...
yeah... one of those...
left-over crumb-fests
that's both Queen and U2
in the anthem criterium
of songs...

                    nothing personal UB40 paddy
go shackle: the urn to a *******
guillotine of harp...
                     such that living
on the isles the welsh, that the scots (as potential)...
certainly... are almost invisible people
should the demographic of Birmingham
be "stressed"...
                         but i have
lived in Scotland and it's unlike
this...       historical England...
this ahistorical London - even on
the northern outskirts in the home counties -
or nearest the trough of the south -
at some figment of my imagination
Brixton -
       how far do the earworms burrow beneath
the clay south of the river?
not very far... Morden?!
is that it?

     Lady Upminster and all that district...
this is not a time for either
rebellion or celebration...
             it's hardly a timekeep of
mourning...
                    it's an ahistorical event:
right now!
      some vagary of a future...
some bricks of a past...
a horrid interpretation of compass:
the crucifix: as driftwood toward north...
and a late cubism...
exfoliation of african ****** details...

             slender hue: my porky pie
pink amber come moonlight...
or some necessary stressor of skins...
                    prior to the door...
a leather doormat...
   onto which i made sacrifices
of my buckle and teeth... and...
                                                lepus dei.

brexit,
   walking on eggshells -
always nice,
always oh so polite...
always the last in the queue -
come on,
who's wasting the fooling
on who, as
opposed to who's fooling
who?
retards on parade...
windowlicker through
& through...
       it would have been
much harder is england
was actually land-locked...
i guess it's polite being
an island nation -
  then i wonder:
who's fooling who?
  england wouldn't be
england if it was located in
some sort of land dispute -
it was always going to be
a two-faced show of
what the english do best:
say (a), then do (b) -
          and they're becoming
oh so ******* boring with
their hoof-haff ******* of
the brexit vote...
and when will the consensus
narrative change?
in about 2 years,
when nothing will actually change...
which makes you wonder:
ever died of boredom?
  ever died reading charles dickens?
i probably would have...
had i read some of it...
      i really feel the time has
arrived that the english stop
feeling comfortable...
   mind you: they were already
a sly bit of awkward -
it's not that i revise a colonial
past,
       and it simply was:
the least exciting piece of *****,
while at the same time
the bulgarian ******* bypassed their
so-called "virginity"
and "marriage material" -
god forbid that was the epitome
of epitomes with regards to
what's to be deemed sacred:
the genitals of an english woman...
rats! rattle those teeth into
gnashing shoo-shoo-shake!
what? it's dentistry: the last resort
is that of a gamble.
      neither be you king,
nor be you queen,
you'll take my social critique,
like any other next to you bound
citizen of an awaited compensate;
you are as much above me,
as i am below you...
   perhaps i'm just better orientated
in the cuss,
and by cuss also the more
civilised?

sometimes now I can admit somewhere in my mind I said, at some point in time today, perhaps a few seconds ago,
visions and epitomes of a lifeless me
and of an urgent rage to grip my metal, my shinking razor
shrinking plastic
to close my eyes for more than a few days
to fill my mouth with eight or ten of the small blue ovals
feeling the drowsiness overcome me
rage of a western retaliation of my mind


so I went to him
I asked him if he could send me his poem,
the DH Lawrence one
because my heart hurt and I wanted to cry
and I could feel my inner legs shaking and my integrity about to give
and I wait for him, the one who almost called me a daisy and likened me to a daughter
I wait patiently for the poem
as a protest
as a contest
as a something
as a something. as a nothing.
no more existence please, then, refill. more existence, pellase, then, refill/.