i ended the day in the comforting night solipsism
rather than getting drunk
and ******
to the point of perfecting it with music
and writing to get a psychadelic event a siasmic
birth of the Mountains of Hawaii
as i were told:
if the sea would recede
and before Earth there was the Inhabitable Mars
and we don't know the history
or the archeology of mars
but we know the geology
and that is not enough to give the span
of time its proper justification
in the realm
of the conscious man:
with the thing-in-itself
of Napoleon's English Custard
for Brains
listening to music
last night i did the Chemist
i balanced the fates out
and today
i culminated into the rebirth of man
and i sorted about 4 things
and subconsciously reunited
myself with my past
one last time
in Poland
with my grandmother
and not my mother
and i want to hear
my grandmother one last time
before i go away
and i know this is REPRESSION
the res cogitans wages
a war with the res extensa
over the cogito
but the cogito submits to both...
to the world internal and the world
of the internally-extended...
i see REPRESSION of the res cogitans
with the Psychiatric term...
it is burning my tongue
i whisper to you
O wind my voice
as the choir persist to sing
and party and show flesh off
you hear the democracy of Hell
whisper in your ear...
i finished the night
by falling asleep
to Gorecki's symphony no 3 op 36
and i know there are *******
fans of Chopin like my mother
and Chopin music governs her house
and the band Enigma when
she's cleaning the house
that i made fun and then fell in love with
and to think two bottles
of cider
and mrs. mushroom opened a can of champagne
instead of a bottle of beer
and we celebrated when
champagne became like canned beer
and there the thought triggers me to drink
some water and preserve myself
to actually bother to look
for that word you were thinking of...
REGRESSIOn!
psychiatric refression of the res extensa
in mind a regressive man
more reflexive than reflective
concerning the mind
lost in the body of bodies...
that symphony is not for writing!
but spontaneity of remembering...
Chemist DJ
change the baggage
but keep what books you will read
from grandfather's library:
Victor Hugo's the Miserables...
in Polish...
i need to give my two tongues a proper
break
i waggled some wolack JOWACH
WOJACK
WOE before the King: who knelt
before he was crucified
but this ontology of man is there:
intact: without the ails of *******
especially when you have
a sugar penny of a girl
and she looks so ****
doing DIY and telling you what
a man is and man says:
i don't know what the scratch of the head is...
an egg?
i would otherwise ride the caurosel
of the **** squeeze...

mr chemist drinks and smokes
and when the right smoke enters he paints
with words
and blunders and blah blahs in conversations
but is painting when you die
i will paint you guessed me right
i might just change medium
and find my true art form
like it might actually be painting
and like that might be true
becausd i learned to bicycle first
then i learned to ride a horse...
now aged 38
i'm going to visit my grandmother Helen
one last time
and i will learn to rent a car on dopamine
when i begin to learn writing
and learning the carousel Hyde Park
Winter Wonderland to effect...
now so much fat in my throat
i even tasted my own *****
like women taste themselves
and that was a bit weird
i think that marriage is a bit bird
when a wife tells you:
please don't be a poet...
please become a painter...
please learn to drive
and get off that horse...
yeah... but you know me...
once i get that ******* license
i will only drive a car on a whim
and buy a canoe and hide it from place
to place
i'd get the canoe moved to point X
then i'd go home
then i'd walk to X
and paddle the canoe to Y
and then from Y i'd walk back home...
then i would use a MOPED
Rome's SCOOTER
to Y and paddle the canoe to Z...
and then from Z i'd walk back to Y
and go back home on my ******* platipus
****** SCOOCH SCOOCH...

here's to you kid looking at me
looking at my new neighbors
and they are Russians i am told
who are the second redeemed
afte the Jews in that War
and in this negetion and who who who is who
i think my wife asked me
to stop being a poet and become
a painter
and i guess that is better
to say so said
all her friends...
i was in a room filled with
8 girls...
i was the **** in the room
and i've had no time to write about that
we played that sort of domino poker
and i think i was being admired
the god fearing man
must have come
i think i left my supposed egoism
2 months behind
and i think i see a pleasure
that man find more than
the man found most pleasure
beside ***
and found it in a carousel continuum
a sense of the eternal...
collective in the eternal
while we are all recycled goods
not by the "individual":
the Western "Idol" of the Individual
used to be there...
as... there-being...

but water and tobacco would work...
i stalked the kitchen
with my night
of the rat
and chicken... plucking no i don't
think i want to play guitar
R asked... do you want to be a musician...
E asked... do you want me to be a wife
of a painter?
are you a painter...
well... who was that famous Italian
striker who started football aged:

what a meagre donation for all the flat-sharing
i knew i was going to be scolded
but i did just buy a newspaper
once and paid $6 bucks for it
and i did read it from A to Z
and in between there might have
been a mention of the Omega Alpha Name
the Man who is like-jesus-****-jesus
Tour of the Ritz by the rents
of rats...
                 12am curfew...
i too have a 12am curfew on internet
usage
out not of parental control
but out of a biological reality of the mind
being over exposed to certain lights
just imagine it's just a massive
bio-technical experiment
the feeding machine of the collective consciousness
and the filters in place to filter out
the public space bit
and give ourselves the most private
space... however diffusing the public
sphere of interest...
          
and yes, i think i'd probably try painting
and escape words
but keep only Polish words intact
and read novels in Polish and newspapers
in English
and read no fine literature in English
as proven by my reading of Knausgaard
that i couldn't stomach in English
but could in Polish
therefore i will not have books in English:
per se... circa... whatever ears
i might have Dostoyevsky's the IDiot
alongside ******'s MEin Kampf:
as a historical artifact...
a book of its time...
but i am of a different time...

yes, i would literature in English:
but only as translations...
i would never read an English author
regardless of them being
either native or immigrant...
i am going elsewhere
i'm not going to be bound to either
the Island of England
or the Baltic Intlet of Debate at Danzing...
for Poland to be part of Scandinavia...
i will divide the tongues:
once and for all: in my mind...
neither will feast of each other
i will write my last and do a Rimbaud
and pretend to be selling fireworks
and losing an arm to Arabic diabetes
away from the alcohol of the north...
and that will be a story...

         that i should stop being a poet
and i was actually looking at something...
can't remember his name i should...
but i left it in vol 6 of knausgaard's my struggle
and i left it on kauai
i don't feel like checking the internet
i'd rather take my eyes off the screen
smoke a cigarette on the lanai
drink something reflax... find the point in
the book and then return to the screen
like some editor of sober
not being sober enough
enough magic
just detox on paying rent
or being a rent boy
doing something around the house
like the plubing like little carpenter boy
little bachelor service
and the *** didn't dry up but i became a limp ****
to a premature mr cabins...

midnight snack... reminiscence of that hour
of curfew and it's so beloved an hour
i will have my cigarette but first
i will have some pork sausage and mustard
and then i will have some french cheese
some honey and hazelnuts to crunch on
and i will have some water and it will
taste like milk...
and not of fake smiles and false teeth...
something like
Francis Bacon painting the SCREAM
and the SCREAM
the archeology of the universal
the form in Munch... of the SCREAM the not-stereotype
the ideaology not the Iconoclasm
of the word... the Protagonist no
the Proliteriat... no... the ARCHETYPE of the scream
in Munch... reimagined with geometry
in Bacon
and now i'm thinking of the SMILE
that came after the SCREAM
because sure as perhaps what else
than to smile back at the pictures prior
of the smiling aristocrats
but in that food
imagine what she is feasting on when
she's trying to fall asleep
on ice cream but no protein
so her body is telling her:
feed us more protein...
i also feel that with my body
and you told me unconsciously:
the reason why i am still having skin issues
is because i am not consuming enough
protein for my actual diet... capacity:
even the burning mind...
but it is true: thinking about a young woman...
maybe not enough protein:
so the body is plunging us with
what happens there is not enough vitamin C
or A in the body:
then couldn't acne me sourced
in a protein deficient diet?
i think i'm living in a protein deficient diet
that is why my skin is so bad...
i learned to compensate:
i will give you all the time in the world
before the mirror
to be that inquisitive child
who loves parasites
and you can squeeze you face all day long
but please try not to *******...
play with you acne all you want
to imagine being the face of Beelzebub
******* out maggots from his skin into the magic
pond of the LAUGHTER of man...
SCREAM
LAUGHTER... the smile did come
and the smile is not but a frown...
so at least that word is covered...
but until you get to hunt deer and remember igloo
and the swing and the climbing of trees
as children... the ontology of man will wake
from this infernal scene of the psy-insomnia
which once was the psychedelic age
after the holocaust
the coping mechanism...
the Great Cope of that Age was Psychadelic
and we are now in the Great Cope
of that Age of the Psy-Insomniac
because people are nostalgic that the 20th century
was the greatest...
and by the confession of the few:
it was...
but such is the riddle of the burden of convenience
and comfort...
that sooner or later you get thinking of rocks
and sisyphus and not about work per se
but about sitting idle
and that is the story of the Sysiphus
the idle sitting the "thinker" who isn't actually
a philosopher...
because of a different breed we are...
philosopher is not a thinker
in that thinking doesn't culminate
in telepathy or telekinesis
but ends up the rot of the television
not that i might be bashing
the televsion:
it's almost like replacing the fireplace
when you need a fireplace
on Hawaii...
so you can't have a romantic moment
on the Faroe Islands
before a fireplace
you have a kid playing on the computer
and its hot enough for cockraoches
to try to hide in the cupboards
and you're massaging her feet
and pinching and just intimate man
and the television acts like a fireplace
at least it puts her to sleep
and i feel like being naughty
and so does R
and i go for a little bit too much drinking
and come back and lie in bed and write poetry
the nocturnal art that comes after
journalism... today i actually had to reassure
my mother that some things reported in the media
are true:
not everything is untrue...
when it comes to the waiting time for a driving license
in England: 6 months...
but it was more or less her finally coming to terms
of pushing my grandmother away from me
so much that i have to go back for maybe
the last time
and that was what was so bothering me
and made me docile
each **** was an issue
and only without it and a wife
do i realise:
but only in a married life...
   that sort of thinking doesn't work in a bachelor
everyday...
i might think i'm a rent boy:
yes... because i still can't legally earn money
in the USA...
so... you know... i did send her pocket money
or what i pay my mother each month...
200 quid... i can send my wife 250 a month to begin
with... i think i'll ask her
into a joint account
i think i'll ask her that
and god it's so liberating to treat
******* like a caffeine shot or a cigarette
because it is...
of a different kind
a sort of ketamine mumbo jumbo psychadelic
i am Elon Musk the Admiral of the Legion
of 14 children...
and one man and a foster daughter...
weird... so... dynamic!

but hardly satire... the curfew hour impeding
and we want to go back
to our little abodes
and turn the lights off and sleep
with a Delightful Latino
Mayan and Aztecs met the Spanish
and you almost forget them
like when the Africans merged with
the Europeans and headed where
and then nowhere but to space
because the land of ideas is drying up
and has been drying up
so... more space to widen the griefs...
maybe i am imagining this fate of time
that time perpetuates and
the changing mind darts
but from there i posit:
    
                               and so much of the motive
ego-alingment changes
when that idea of not paying for groceries
did i block those cards on purpose
or what?
i don't know...
but i don't know who was paying
for what the goods
were cooked
mum didn't listen to how
MAtthew wanted to make those hens
and my mother went and ****** up
Matthew in the chicken with
the kitchen in the chicken kitchen kitchen
kitchen
and she was watching a ******* spider
documentary
and she wanted *** so much
she was like an alien
and then there was another alien in the kitchen
and he was not having any of it
or maybe that was just my mother's ******
energy keeping him on a leash
and then the next day he sabotaged her
and he sabotaged her good with those dumplings
but he did make those muffins in the morning
waking up at 5am with the same flour
or she sabotaged him with that ****** flour
but the filling was good
and maybe we were having some deep *******
conversation with R
and i think we were...
yes i think there were some deep conversations...
and i still think both of them want
me to be a painter...
they don't want a drinking poet
i think of all the sober painters
like van Gogh
who suckled on calm like those hummingbirds...
a realm of images without words
and sounds and therefore music
but the realm of images
and the calm of van Gogh more in technique
than on abstract ******* squeezes
yes i imagine the drunken years and youth
i guess...
but i also image them not beginning in
these cages...
the curfew hour approaches...

30min until fasting from eating meat...
i better go stock up on some sausage and mustard
before i get into honey cheese and hazelnights
and go to sleep thinking of my wife
and my daughter... sooner or later having to
become some sort of vivid "mine".