i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta

You're like the caffeine-free soda
FANTA-stic.
I actually have many more words than that
But i'd go on all day
And you'd fall asleep with how many i have.

Today we shall have the naming of parts. How the opening of that poem by Henry Reed caught his present thoughts; that banal naming of parts of a soldier’s rifle set against the delicate colours and textures of the gardens outside the lecture room. *Japonica glistening like coral  . . . branches holding their silent eloquent gestures . . . bees fumbling the flowers. It was the wrong season for this so affecting poem – the spring was not being eased as here, in quite a different garden, summer was easing itself out towards autumn, but it caught him, as a poem sometimes would.

He had taken a detour through the gardens to the studio where in half an hour his students would gather. He intended to name the very parts of rhythm and help them become aware of their personal knowledge and relationship with this most fundamental of musical elements, the most connected with the body.

He had arranged to have a percussionist in on the class, a player he admired (he had to admit) for the way this musician had dealt with a once-witnessed on-stage accident that he’d brought it into his poem sequence Lemon on Pewter. They had been in Cambridge to celebrate her birthday and just off the train had hurried their way through the bicycled streets to the college where he had once taught, and to a lunchtime concert in a theatre where he had so often performed himself.

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

And having thought himself back to those twenty-four hours in Cambridge the delights of the morning garden aflame with colour and texture were as nothing beside his vivid memory of that so precious time with her. The images and the very physical moments of that interval away and together flooded over him, and he had to stop to close his eyes because the images and moments were so very real and he was trembling . . . what was it about their love that kept doing this to him? Just this morning he had sat on the edge of his bed, and in the still darkness his imagination seemed to bring her to him, the warmth and scent of her as she slept face down into a pillow, the touch of her hair in his face as he would bend over her to kiss her ear and move his hand across the contours of her body, but without touching, a kind of air-lovers movement, a kiss of no-touch. But today, he reminded himself, we have the naming of parts . . .

He was going to tackle not just rhythm but the role of percussion. There was a week’s work here. He had just one day. And the students had one day to create a short ‘poem for percussion’ to be performed and recorded at the end of the afternoon class. In his own music he considered the element of percussion as an ever-present challenge. He had only met it by adopting a very particular strategy. He regarded its presence in a score as a kind of continuo element and thus giving the player some freedom in the choice of instruments and execution. He wanted percussion to be ‘a part’ of equal stature with the rest of the musical texture and not a series of disparate accents, emphases and colours. In other words rhythm itself was his first consideration, and all the rest followed. He thought with amusement of his son playing Vaughan-Williams The Lark Ascending and the single stroke of a triangle that constituted his percussion part. For him, so few composers could ‘do it’ with percussion. He had assembled for today a booklet of extracts of those who could: Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale (inevitably), Berio’s Cummings songs, George Perle’s Sextet, Living Toys by Tom Ades, his own Flights for violin and percussionist. He felt diffident about the latter, but he had the video of those gliders and he’d play the second movement What is the Colour of the Wind?

In the studio the percussionist and a group of student helpers were assembling the ‘kits’ they’d agreed on. The loose-limbed movements of such players always fascinated him. It was as though whatever they might be doing they were still playing – driving a car? He suddenly thought he might not take a lift from a percussionist.

On the grand piano there was, thankfully, a large pile of the special manuscript paper he favoured when writing for percussion, an A3 sheet with wider stave lines. Standing at the piano he pulled a sheet from the pile and he got out his pen. He wrote on the shiny black lid with a fluency that surprised him: a toccata-like passage based on the binary rhythms he intended to introduce to his class. He’d thought about making this piece whilst lying in bed the previous night, before sleep had taken him into a series of comforting dreams. He knew he must be careful to avoid any awkward crossings of sticks.

The music was devoid of any accents or dynamics, indeed any performance instructions. It was solely rhythm. He then composed a passage that had no rhythm, only performance instructions, dynamics, articulations such as tremolo and trills and a play of accents, but no rhythmic symbols. He then went to the photocopier in the corridor and made a batch of copies of both scores. As the machine whirred away he thought he might call her before his class began, just to hear her soft voice say ‘hello’ in that dear way she so often said it, the way that seem to melt him, and had been his undoing . . .

When his class had assembled (and the percussionist and his students had disappeared pro tem) he began immediately, and without any formal introduction, to write the first four 4-bit binary rhythms on the chalkboard, and asked them to complete it. This mystified a few but most got the idea (and by now there was a generous sharing between members of the class), so soon each student had the sixteen rhythms in front of them.

‘Label these rhythms with symbols a to p’, he said, ‘and then write out the letters of your full name. If there’s a letter there that goes beyond p create another list from q to z. You can now generate a rhythmic sequence using what mathematicians call a function-machine. Nigel would be:

x x = x     x = = =      = x x =      = x x x      x = x x

Write your rhythm out and then score it for 4 drums – two congas, two bongos.’

His notion was always to keep his class relentlessly occupied. If a student finished a task ahead of others he or she would find further instructions had appeared on the flip chart board.  Audition –in your head - these rhythms at high speed, at a really quick tempo. Now slow them right down. Experiment with shifting tempos, download a metronome app on your smart phone, score the rhythms for three clapping performers, and so on.

And soon it was performance time and the difficulties and awkwardness of the following day were forgotten as nearly everyone made it out front to perform their binary rhythmic pieces, and perform them with much laughter, but with flair and élan also. The room rang with the clapping of hands.

The percussionist appeared and after a brief introduction – in which the Fanta bottle incident was mentioned - composer and performer played together *****’s Clapping Music before a welcome break was taken.

you think this is funny?
you cheer with your boys?
making nonsense and noise
go find all your toys

i could take photos of you
and they always show me the truth
of how beautiful
you
are

you're not one for dates
but i could take you
some
where

if you would maybe care
i would try
and we could be ly
ing
under the stars

but instead i'm in here
crying
wishing i was
dying
wish you were
beside
me

so why is it
surprising
that no matter what the
night
brings

i'm always
fanta
size
ing

about you
taking photos
without your
consent
i'm sorry i didn't tell you
yet
but you're my best
asset

funny i fell in love with a dark skinned boy named Justice during all this racism *******

....right?

Are you bored?
Do you feel there's no point to the things you do?
Is your life missing an element of excitement?

Fear not, I have just the thing

Put the Awe back in Awesome
Put the back Zing back in Amazing
Put the Fanta back into Fantastic

What?  Fanta is great.

Anyway

It's rather simple.  

The next time you have to do something you find boring, depressing, or unfulfilling, do it FOR SCIENCE!

Some examples:

I'll be out later, I have to do my English homework...FOR SCIENCE
I'm giving the big presentation tomorrow...FOR SCIENCE
I got into a car accident this morning...FOR SCIENCE
I don't feel so well, I need to use the crapper...FOR SCIENCE.  I'll be in there awhile.  For Science.
Someone tried to steal my purse, so I stabbed them...FOR SCIENCE

I guarantee that if you use this handy tip, your self esteem will rise, and people will find you exponentially more interesting!

Or they might think you're crazy

They definitely won't think you're boring, though.

So go out there and show the world what you're made of

For Science!

11:44 PM // do you remember the first time we met? i do.

12:02 AM // i remember the first time we locked eyes like it was yesterday

12:09 AM // i remember the swirl of green and brown all in one mesmerising gaze taunting me like a bad dream

12:57 AM // you were never just a stranger to me, you were never a face that didn’t matter  

1:18 AM // from the moment i laid eyes on you i knew you’d break my heart

1:32 AM // i can't stop thinking about the last time you told me you loved me

1:55 AM // you called me up after weeks of nothing and told me you'd never love anyone like you loved me

2:07 AM // you were saying goodbye, weren't you?

2:50 AM //  i could have forgiven you if it was only a kiss, but you fell in love with her

3:49 AM // i've kissed lots of people since you, but none of them pulled my hair and tasted like fanta

4:27 AM // my god i loved you with everything i had

5:01 AM // it still wasn't enough, was it?

5:55 AM // it was always meant to be her.

i am a blade tucked safely in Tupperware
my lonely teeth hidden under clammy pillow
feel these nightmares like they were yours
i could blush with you all night
when my mouth feels dry
it is not from the absence of presence
but from the rotundity cascade
that your hair ebbs as it collides with mine
i'd like to think this folly is something
i can put on the centerfold
a gift too pronounced with an utter
of my masked gravity inside all the
beer you pour into a proud papercup
days shrink into nothingness

If you'd care to help
I'm saving up cans
With the brilliant idea
To build an aluminum can friend

One that shines bright
That never will rust
In whom I share secrets
One I can trust

He'll have Coca-Cola arms
And Dr. Pepper legs
Non-caffine Sprite
I'll use for his head

Don't want my aluminum can friend
To have jitters all day
Restless at night
Staying up late

I'll give him Pepsi hands
That are willing to please
So when I do chores
He can help me

For my friend on the go
I'll give Mountain Dew feet
A couple Red Bull
If I decide to do wings

And an idea that is good
Would be a Fanta heart
For a colorful beat
With all the flavors there are

So if you'd like to help
I'm saving up cans
With the brilliant idea
To build an aluminum can friend

The ball goes down the lane
it clinks on pins
and down they go,
the shoes fit just right
and everyone you know is in sight,
being taught how to spell the letter R
of your name by your great aunt Vi,
seeing your funny aunt Marlene,
being with your grandma Ross,
and going to Sammy's Restaurant
for grilled cheese,
and the pharmacy for pink Trident gum,
all this under one roof.
I run to the lane
the ball goes down the lane
I run to the counter in time
shut off the lane
and CRASH!
no pins fall
the sound of the ball ricochets
from one end to the other;
my mischievous ways fulfilled,
and God I loved the Fanta pop
which my dad, the manager I was
proud of, readily supplied,
the place is now gone
but it's life still goes on
the pins crash even louder,
the disinfectant shoe spray still as smelly,
the oil of the lane still slippery,
and the grilled cheese still as good;
and carried on to the current day...
Georgina would have been proud!


http://www.robross.ca

Half asleep, driving for hours
with Budweiser bottles,
warm from the heating.
The windows were all down,
we were smoking rollies,
all sharing one lighter because the driver
dropped his in a can of fanta.

Next thing,
the roar of an army of twincams.
VTECs, something insanely beautiful,
and incredibly ridiculous,
a convention of petrol heads—
Gardaí everywhere, searching for tax
and insurance. My God, I was in it.
Hundreds of thousands of them,
all excited like children,
the screaming of a million voices,
no exhaustion in the exhaust fumes.

The hills rose around us, the traffic
packed backwards,
expensive cars all sardined in a roundabout.
How loud can you get it?
Can she sing like a canary?
Can she find herself at the Letterkenny rally?

There's an office away from the high street
Where the ordinance survey resides
And the walls there are painted with boredom
Not a singular giggle abides
But there's one room below, in the cellar
Where Connor completes the new maps
Adding green and blue spots and churches
Putting pine trees in all of the gaps

Now just two days before publication
He was feeling mischievous and bold
So he pulled out the map of his village
And he penned the words "Here Be Gold"
Then he folded them neatly and deftly
He took them for copy and print
Bid his colleagues a wonderful summer
And he left just approaching a sprint

So the map making season was over
And his handiwork soon was for sale
Connor waited and made preparation
To ensure that his scheme didn't fail
He rented a tired ice cream van
And he filled it with cunning supplies
When his phone rang one Saturday morning
He spoke with well measured surprise

That call brought a knock to his doorway
And a nod to a neighbouring field
With a mind to extract precious metals
And a promise of half of the yield
"That field belonged to my father"
Young Connor was quick to invent
"You can dig just as much as you like there
It's three hundred a day for the rent"

There was much in the way of discussion
Then a scratching of paper and pen
A shake of a hand and a smiling
They were gone by a quarter past ten
So he counted they money they left him
They had paid him a week in advance
It would certainly pay off the mortgage
With some left for a weekend in France

On Monday there came with a rumbling
A convoy of notable size
There were trailers with diggers and cabins
And vans full of tools and supplies
All halted by general consensus
They unloaded each pallet and crate
Not seeing that over the field
Young Connor had bolted the gate

With a fever they started to burrow
With the sun beating down on their backs
They were tiring by the mid morning
But provisions were curiously lax
When in rolled a tired ice cream van
Playing green sleeves in hideous tones
Soon the workers were queuing in masses
For Fanta and lollies and cones

But the bill drew a gasp from each punter
Though the thirst had them caught by the *****
So they paid the extortionate prices
And stripped to their workmanlike smalls
At the end of the day they departed
And only young Connor remained
With a plan and a shiny new toolbox
Which he'd only just lately obtained

The next day the foremen and drivers
Found their diggers unable to dig
The engines were gone from their bonnets
And the oil had escaped from their rig
There was much of the pointing and cursing
And some harsh accusations were made
In the end they decided to press on
And continue with bucket and *****

They made quite a hole in the field
And they slowly descended from sight
They were forty feet down by the evening
And lamenting the vanishing light
When one of them turned with a bucket
To ferry out some of the spoil
When he came to what should be a ladder
And found only two dents in the soil

Connor slept and he dreamed of his fortune
And was thankfully hardy and stout
Or he'd certainly be more exhausted
After dragging those ladders about
In the morning he took to the field
With a bag and a rope and a smile
He leaned forward and peering downwards
Did proclaim in benevolent style

"Ahoy there you diggers and bucket men
Are you stranded in this here hole?"
There were cries from the depths and more cursing
And pleas that would shatter the soul
"I am sorry but I have no ladders
But I do have a coil of rope
You'd better shed weight for I'm sickly
I'm afraid that I may well not cope"

"So take off your rings and your watches
Your mobile phones and your cash
And pile them into a bucket
I'll hoist them all out in a flash"
After further complaining and shouting
Connor stood with a bucket of loot
And with that he went back to his cottage
Twas a very successful commute

The next year in the ordinance survey
On the map of the place he resides
In the field that belonged to his father
Amid pine trees and yet more besides
There are words in the faintest of letters
Between pictures of diggers and tools
Saying "Here Be Gold if you know where to look
And a ****** great hole full of fools"

One juice box
One scone
One apple for Noble
and a pita for Peter

One sandwich
One coke
One green pea for  me
and a pita for Peter

One fanta for Santa
One pizza for Caesar
And extra mozzarella for Ella
The spare is for you
And as for the bean
Put that in the bin
and a pita for Peter

One ice-cream
One pie
One pasta for Busta
and a pita for Peter

One cake
One steak
One milkshake for Shriek
and a pita for Peter

One pita
for Peter?
Give each one their own
*and a pita for Peter

Pop bottles. Boxes of them.
The old man brought them home.
He collected them on the construction site, between lifts.
Sometimes it would be days between lifts,
So he filled time collecting bottles.
Hires, Fanta, Tab, Fresca, 7 Up, Mountain Dew,
Canada Dry...
Emptied by men, like him, from all over.
What conversations did he have with them
When he picked up the empties.
Did he indulge? He'd have liked Vernors.
Pop bottles were as good as gold.
Large bottles, a nickel: Small, two cents.
He kept us busy, weeding, straightening nails, digging, mixing cement, building fences, painting them, and the house;
Root cellars, garages, additions;
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.
Winter had it's own cuffs.

We'd cash in the bottles at Walker Bros.
Every Sunday he'd leave for weeks,
Up North, to places like Kapuskasing and Hearst.
He must've been thinking about us up there,
Collecting our bottles,
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.

odor remover
and soaked carpet
the memories are
harder to exstinguish
clinging to songs
and scents
i loved you more
last night
when i realized
that we grieve
the same way
it’s nice to know
it’s not just
me

Audio version- listen.        
https://m.soundcloud.com/ehazuagbe
you can also drop your comments.


i'm just a vessel, words pass through me,
my mind is a clouded place, you cant understand my nature,
I have been through alot of tortures, mental,
you see, i revived myself in other find myself,
tired of hiding in the shadows, becoming so shallow,
my mind is a battlefield, my words are my greatest shield,
beauty, lied under her lips, her words,
she, she was my greatest gift, but I have learned to let go the best things in life,
shoutout to my ex, she made me grow.
she turned me from been an ordinary guy to a poet,
now i dream elusive. i think exclusive,
even tho I tried to make we work like a telecommunication,
when I find my next, I will never lose the communication,
they say, they don't know me anymore, the person I have become,
you changed me, the world, you made me,
i write poems on my skin, in hidden places at night when it's 2am,
in between heaven and earth,
thats where I find my serenity,
counting the stars as I dig my feets in the ocean in motion,
so many things I see not, I wish I saw to pen into words,
the waves, war of both worlds, a constant battle like the heart of man,
we claim we are educated but still find love complicated,
broken every piece of physics still can't find the mystery to life,
we claim we are soft hearted but yet, we find it hard to forgive even those we love,
these are deep words that burn in my soul as it echoes at night,
as I chat with my folks I see them lose hope,
hope on life, like the knife was drawn to their throat ready to slay, cold.
imagine,
imagine how people see life, they have planted a seed of failure left to grow, groomed & watered with empty thought,
but no,life is beautiful,
like the eyes of a woman, so delicate like an egg,
we protected by God like the shell,
sometimes we need to climb the hills to feel,
to heal, to grow,
my mind,
my mind is a hidden room, filled with words,
& poetry is my only escape,
from the ridges to the bridges,
I seek to know more, I flip the pages,
in each flip I flip, I have a tear drop on each page to remember me of we,
I once wrote a poem on a red rose,
and sang each words to the moon at night,
hoping the stars will kiss her through the window,
with a light so bright,
once upon a time I watched Romeo & Juliet,
I never knew u would leave me so soon in June yet,
without no melody,
do you still remember my name, or you only tune me on. when you bored?
my love was so deep I told motherland she wasn't as pretty as you are.
she still reflect,
I dreamt of you and me together, summer, my hand inside you further,
I kissed away your fear and inhaled your breathe,
I tasted your fanta a fantasy and you complimented my size,
fantasize,
if my heart was to love till now, I place my hand on my chest,
for I have never seen true beauty till that night.

I

You’re higher up on a train so the flatness the far horizons the empty fields the ***** disappearing into the distance solitary houses set amongst windbreaks of trees and surrounded by the loam-rich fields the serious machinery turning or drilling the earth raised levies of a distinctive green birds gathering notating music on telegraph wires suddenly a mumuration of starlings undulating wave-like in the drab mouse-grey skies arching and over this train riding perched above the land and now acres of water not a lake flooded land gradually tapering towards a sprawling city all but hidden by its hill-less topography

II

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

III

It’s the other side of town past and running the gauntlet of the shops we’d love to stop and look Don’t lets That’s for later Now it’s the house we’ve come to see four narrow cottages joined as one hard to believe the inside from the outside Oh that lemon on the pewter plate Ben’s drawing beneath the windowsill you had to kneel to look at The long table surfaces decorated with stones shells wood on shelves of the right books and the right chairs to read them in we sat still I sketching you in the grey fading light

IV

Suddenly the brightness of the adjoining gallery a dozen paintings nothing here of the interstellar abstract chilly world of the ellipse where she failed to make a home preferring to make a cup of tea alongside a growing bud and the tissued plants the gathered flowers in a chapel niche the white saxifrage of the Highlands and washed out colours of Bamburgh’s beaches then suddenly a child and that life-size photo a tall girl hair braided painterly somewhere in the Italian lakes her obsessive colour chart searching for the unknown purple she had once glimpsed with her father in India

one of those beautiful nights...
    there's absolutely nothing to write...
memories keep flooding in:
coagulating, constipating me with
inactivity:
    perhaps this comes off as a complaint:
sure... a complain of a workaholic-alcoholic
nights like this i wish my wages weren't
stalled by 2 months and i could
take the bus to the brothel and
snuggle...
            pretend that smoking cigarettes
gives you the limp when it fact
withdrawing from smoking and then
a cigarette during ******* reignites
passions...
          lazily: oh too lazily...
                    perhaps reading some Ovid might
help... i need to finish his ****** poems
before i take to Zhuangzi all the more seriously:
i tried doing what some people do:
reading several books simultaneously...
at least today one thing came close to
an intimate contact with a woman...
8am sharp... at the hair-dresser...
  her floor-sweeper brought in her puppy...
such tender hair... cocker-spaniel...
i picked him up and snuggled her
before sitting down in a chair... closed my eyes
and talked blah blah this... blah blah that...
my hairdresser already knew my passion
for cycling: she recently picked it up...
then breakfast back home...
  and two decent hours spent watching
the world championships in athletics from
Oregon... then bottle recycling...
then... ooh... at my most "*** starved"
i conjured up the idea that getting a beard trim
is almost on par with oral ***...
i still think so... it certainly beats a haircut...
and no one does it better than a Turk...
by the end of it i looked like i slimmed 5 kilograms...
which was great: my cheeks and neck could
breathe again...
i just sat in the chair without talking...
just the casual hello... and he already knew
what i wanted...
                          i must have one of those
faces you can't forget... or one of those faces
that's familiar... or one of those faces you want
to punch... but i didn't ask for a hot towel...
i've never seen anyone of English heritage
get a Turkish towel treatment...
a menthol infused towel gets placed over your
head only exposing your nose to breathe...
while the barber turns to massaging your arms
and hands and fingers...
maybe i should go visit a massage parlour
for real... it's only half the price...
and i might just feel that much better than having
to pretend i'm competing for "something"...
beside my own egoism...
then again: and you will know the difference
between good AND evil...
              clearly i'm not the one to know...
it's not a clear-cut case of GOOD or EVIL...
the terms diffuse from their absolute pyramid
scheme into the subtler matters of the mind...
i can feel: negation-prefix-action:
i can feel: DISgust (disgust)
  i can feel: disagreement
              i can feel... disingenuousness....
as it stands? there no good or bad...
there's: THAT and DIS (phonetically THIS,
since THIS is not implying theta...
    for that? a missing T... i.e. fist)
                  women's Euro finals on the 31st
of this month... get paid on the 1st...
i still don't know why of all the people employed
around the same time as me
i'm the only one with an employee status
while everyone else is self-employed...
writing invoices...
someone working this job for 12 years
asks me why i've been made a supervisor after
no qualification being granted for me and having
only worked: since last December...
    maybe my grandfather taught me something
more indispensable than anything "said"
person might learn...
i want a heart of emptiness...
              i want the wind in my heart
with an easier beat to the sometimes: thumping of
my head as nothing comes knocking
in a manner that's: wake up thinking...

ah! now i know what prompted me to write
something today... my father was getting
a haircut prior to me...
i stalled my "styling" sessions by ordering
a can of Fanta and a white coffee two doors down...
i sat down at a table outside the cafe
and downed the can of Fanta...
bad idea... it was the first thing i ingested
in the morning... i finished it... started smoking
a cigarette, started drinking the coffee...
opened the newspaper an skimmed reading
news: eh... the world? same old... same old...

die welt: gleich-alt... altgleich...
"quizzical" and at the same time queasy...
i need to feel better...
i'm not going to pretend to feel better by just
sitting there trying to keep it all in...
this article prompted me:
Janice Turner: Soldiers should not be buying sed
anywhere...
i need to puke my guts out...
so i walk across the street and enter a cornfield
and start puking my guts out...
this bright orange mix of phlegm and bubbles...
ooh... release... now all i need to do is
grab a loaf from my *** while sitting on the thrones...
how i managed to sit through a session
of hair-cutting i will never know...

the day ended with me watching French women
batter the Dutch women at football:
deservedly...
so hold on: because this article stuck with me
for the entire day...
if soldiers should not be buying *** anywhere?
what about civilians?
i started thinking about the alternative reality...

women have all the agency in the realm of ***...
right up to the point of being the ones favouring
infanticide: she sleeps with a loser...
gets pregnant: termination:
because the "loser" is not geared up to shackles
and commitment of... whatever...

"research" shows trading money for consent
reduces empathy:
so does meal-tickets... dating...
trading free meals for *** reduces both
empathy and: trust...
                that's why when i read a newspaper
i skip all the news and go straight into
the editorial section: the opinions...
opinions?! ugh... in journalism that's synonymous
with unchallenged dialectics...

i think this "article" prompted the morning
sickness more than the can of Fanta...
i felt sick...
i find a £1000+ mobile phone in a supermarket...
i cycle home with it... it starts ringing with:
mommy... title for the ringer...
i get a churning in my stomach...
i can't rob a child of a mistake she'll learn from:
that... not everyone in society will do this...
hand in a lost phone...
best to get her hopes up...
at least i won't be the one disappointing her...
like that Iron Maiden song: afraid to shoot strangers...

yeah... that's what got me all weird and jittery...
soldiers should not be buying *** anywhere?
what about civilians? are, they, still, allowed?
or are we in a one massive ******* nunnery
of western women's feminism?!
*** is ***... *** is bad when its exchanged...
but good when it's free in *******?
a next: elevated ******* harem of would-be eunuchs?!

what if you buy ***... but at the same time...
manage to give a ******* an ****** by performing
oral *** on her? lies?! LIES! LIES! LIES!
she's always faking her ******* ******:
just like the woman is faking her pregnancy:
with "you": but not "him"... right?
the oldest story in the book of fairy-tales...

better *** work than journalism...
once upon a time there was journalism...
now journalists enter the realm of a secular priesthood...
who are these pope-editors?!
humanity has returned to a secular-religiosity...
it's that ******* plain and simple...
it took me a day to react...
i wanted to enjoy the day....
watch some athletics... some female football...
water the garden... cook a bbq...
the usual ****...
  but when you wake up with headlines:

MAN GIVING A WOMAN AN ****** = BAD...
you're like? well then... the next best "thing"
is probably killing her: so she shuts the **** up...
you don't play "sane" psychological dissonance
with a misdiagnosed schizophrenic:
someone with a psychotic "disorder":
you dye you hair pink or purple
and build up weird ****** expressions:
and shut the **** up...

          and you start listening to God-Smack:
esp. the song: stay away...

    if it weren't for Turkish or Romanian prostitutes
i'd still be an "incel"...
                        to hell with that...
that's paradoxically the "west" in a nutshell:
it wants both the superiority in morality
and a superiority in stressing its pillar of individualism:
which is supposed to be freed from
moralism... or did i get something wrong?

my morality? if i find money?
you're not going to find it or therefore get it back...
money is money...
i use money to turn a stone into a plank of wood...
even though the stone is not exchanged
for a plank of wood...
money is money is money...
money is also time...
  money is emblem... money is the fingernails
of Mammon...
                why do all frauds happen in
the realm of the credit system?
why don't i use the credit system?
for all the gained security...
              there's less self-awareness within the credit
system... ergo? i've primarily focused on
the debit system: i spend what i have...
i spend what i own...
                      i've stopped using the credit system
donkeys' years ago...
    who's going to scam me? who's going to bribe me?
to use the debit system implies:
you have to be the person using
the debit card... anyone can apparently use
a credit card...

here: a schematic...

body-shadow... hmm... what language will i chose?
the usual...
i like squares:

body                            ghost





breath                          shadow


breath being interchangeable with soul...
ergo?

leib                                  geist





atem                                shatten...

  (
seele... somewhere donw the line...
                    )

so what the **** are we supposed to do?
can civilians "buy" ***? what the **** are we "buying":
we're certainly not buying what being in a relationship buys...
being a married man you're not buy whiskey...
you're not buying vinyl records...
you're not buying bicycle spare-parts...
you're buying?! lip-gloss... too many *******
kitchen equipment...
i... i seriously don't want to earn money to do that...
******* THICK SKULLS!
women pretend they become... ******* Albert Einsteins
in the biology department very: clearly: early...
and then lose all their sensibility...
i need 20 hunting dogs...
i don't need a woman... i can cook food for myself!
what are these lunatic Lucy types thinking?!

here's a worthwhile review:
ALL WARS SHOULD BE FOUGHT WITHOUT ANY
VIOLENCE ANYWHERE!

ha ha... ha ha!
no sentence should be stringed with grammatical
intelligence: since the time immemorial
concerning a Helen of Troy...
war was not ***?!
right... so... currently... the un-****** women
get to dictate to the "*****" women
what... ******* is?
all of them are ***-starved: petty paupers?
*** is no fun?
  it must be primed: based on the focus
of a prim?
                          there needs to be an awe aspiring
consensus of the ******* "sisterhood"
oh **** me... i really must have missed
the shady alleys and brothels and forgot
about the leisurely activities of "proper" women:
the sort that prescribing announcing
themselves to the gig economy stewards:
but i'm a law graduate student:
i forgot to tell her...
i'm a former  chemistry student...
you're not half way from floating my boat...
but i'm pretty sure you'll find your
African anti-racist commodification you wish
to find... ergo? i don't give a ****...

seriously, by now?
          i start waving my hands in the air like
i just don't care...
i'm looking elsewhere... Turkish... esp. Turkish...
i'm looking for a second schism in Islam...
i have "plans"...
                
ugh... African women? i don't find them attractive...
does that does make me "racist"? ah ha ha...
                  how-z'ah... how-z'ah...
you find tapeworms attractive...
i'd love to pet a hyena...
  almost like a dog...
                          
well... wouldn't you know: with article such as these:
#metoo can die a silent death...
with opinions like these:
unchallenged...
no... nope... i don't want to **** these women:
i best avoid them...
              i won't want to touch these women
with these kind of opinions...
i want them in the ******* nunnery of both the physical
sense and in the sense of ideas...
what for? soi defensive...
            i'd rather wrestle with a dozen of Rottweiler
cubs... for fun... than **** a woman like that...

to hell with the imagination of 72 virgins:
they must be all middle-Eastern...
they can't be Western...
just give me a dozen of Rottweiler cubs...
i just need that...
                            i know how to orientate my thrills...
they are never enough...
            but i know what's enough:
give me a dozen of Rottweiler cubs...
and go **** yourself and your harem...
no... because: that's not how it works...
it works via "X"... and the said "X" is: said X...
which is this.

Do you remember Mexico?
How old were we then, twelve?
That place was so loved
It smelled like dust and slow-cooked beans
We caught a toad
We painted dorms
El Sauzal, the willow, the willow
A beaten-up concrete playground
Bright, yellow sun
Red, sticky Fanta
Worn-in smiles adjusting to the smell of strangers
I fell in love with a Mexican boy
We didn't even play soccer together
Watched a movie in a language neither of us spoke
Climbed trees with leaves that needed a rake
Cleaned a nursery room
Told scary stories around a red campfire
Letting the world seep into our veins
Saw the dolphins when we camped at the beach
Named and re-named the tick-ridden dogs
The water was wetter
The air was headier
The sun shined more unrelentingly, more heavenly
The blisters harder-won
The rain more of a blessing
The life so much more tangible and delicious

Audio version- listen.        
https://m.soundcloud.com/ehazuagbe
you can also drop your comments.


i'm just a vessel, words pass through me,
my mind is a clouded place, you cant understand my nature,
I have been through alot of tortures, mental,
you see, i revived myself in other find myself,
tired of hiding in the shadows, becoming so shallow,
my mind is a battlefield, my words are my greatest shield,
beauty, lied under her lips, her words,
she, she was my greatest gift, but I have learned to let go the best things in life,
shoutout to my ex, she made me grow.
she turned me from been an ordinary guy to a poet,
now i dream elusive. i think exclusive,
even tho I tried to make we work like a telecommunication,
when I find my next, I will never lose the communication,
they say, they don't know me anymore, the person I have become,
you changed me, the world, you made me,
i write poems on my skin, in hidden places at night when it's 2am,
in between heaven and earth,
thats where I find my serenity,
counting the stars as I dig my feets in the ocean in motion,
so many things I see not, I wish I saw to pen into words,
the waves, war of both worlds, a constant battle like the heart of man,
we claim we are educated but still find love complicated,
broken every piece of physics still can't find the mystery to life,
we claim we are soft hearted but yet, we find it hard to forgive even those we love,
these are deep words that burn in my soul as it echoes at night,
as I chat with my folks I see them lose hope,
hope on life, like the knife was drawn to their throat ready to slay, cold.
imagine,
imagine how people see life, they have planted a seed of failure left to grow, groomed & watered with empty thought,
but no,life is beautiful,
like the eyes of a woman, so delicate like an egg,
we protected by God like the shell,
sometimes we need to climb the hills to feel,
to heal, to grow,
my mind,
my mind is a hidden room, filled with words,
& poetry is my only escape,
from the ridges to the bridges,
I seek to know more, I flip the pages,
in each flip I flip, I have a tear drop on each page to remember me of we,
I once wrote a poem on a red rose,
and sang each words to the moon at night,
hoping the stars will kiss her through the window,
with a light so bright,
once upon a time I watched Romeo & Juliet,
I never knew u would leave me so soon in June yet,
without no melody,
do you still remember my name, or you only tune me on. when you bored?
my love was so deep I told motherland she wasn't as pretty as you are.
she still reflect,
I dreamt of you and me together, summer, my hand inside you further,
I kissed away your fear and inhaled your breathe,
I tasted your fanta a fantasy and you complimented my size,
fantasize,
if my heart was to love till now, I place my hand on my chest,
for I have never seen true beauty till that night.

@ a cristian @ a catholic @ an all round ruddy good athlete. @ herd roast beef @ herd mutton. @ i used to lead the pork and dairy through the fields of cotton. @ wear football socks and wellingtons and fleeces and march to the top of the old south downs. @ make a jump jet from bits of old pieces @ act a goat or a hero or a clown. @ do front flips straight from the backflip @ sing who put the dog with the cat fish @ say ship! Take the P add a T @ break the day with a bowl of muesli. @ play snake if my mate had a phone, but playing with others isnt always better than playing
alone.

@ like films made for kids my age, glamourised ideas of aristocracy and faith. The good will win and the bad will be sad and the age of the raging mad will begin, its a fad! @ wear jean jackets, go to the parties @ have fanta and chocolate log rushing through the arteries. @ chew through books faster than a vulture, faster than the fastest man at the height of zombie culture. @ play football everyday football winter time football, dont need sun. And then we play cricket. 40 legs of cricket. 3 days later im counting up the runs

I still remember the taste of
orange fanta, sticky and sweet
on your lips.
It’s as nostalgic, as it is painful,
remembering you.
I swallow a bit easier, with each
coming sip.

I’ve got better things to do
Than not drink orange soda
My winter is long enough
Without that summer in a bottle

It’s the taste of my youth
That magic orange soda
Fanta, Crush, or Sunkist
They all take me there

Carbonated sweet sun
This icy orange soda
Every sip is a portal in time
Take me back, take me back

This year I will need Santa
to bring us more than Fanta
and i don't mean world peace
our wars will never cease
and i don't mean more presents
they are for kids and peasants
but this year Santa Claus
must think hard and then pause
and moments before swooping in
spread love and joy with his vaccine

I close my eyes
So I could see,
Perceive what lies
Infinitely -
A cluster of
Realities -
That if becomes
How great would be

the coke machine
up on the hill,
the hill it’s been on
for forty years or
more,
reads in angry red
letters:
SOLD OUT

the coke
the diet coke
the sprite
the fanta
and
the mello yellow
too

all gone
but it still begs
for your dollar
fifty
even though
it can’t give you
anything back

the forty year-
old coke machine
up on the hill
is sold out
but it’s still thirsty
and so are
you

I throw this *****
like a tantrum

He say my name
like a mantra

Slappin clappin ***
like a hand drum

Had him so thirsty ask him
"Don't you want a fanta?"

All I know about Beau
is that there are about
six and half feet
between his head and
his shoes.
All I know about Beau
is that most of his paycheck goes to CEO of Fanta
and on a good day
he can carry four glass
bottles at a time.
All I know about Beau
is that today for lunch he had expensive ice
cream in a waffle cone.
All I know about Beau
is that I have never seen him smile.

I tried to throw the phone on the bed,
but threw the glass instead,
sprinkling ***** and fanta fruit twist like holy water,
This is where I hurl my head
and wake, and wake, and wake.
Crust seals the eye like a crypt.
Dreamscape duvet: paint your colours,
Phantasmagorical shadows sweep the brow,
walls blend blurred images,
dream friends pass like flocks of birds faceless in flight.
I could ask you what it’s like to be a character in my dream,
make it all about me or you could tell me I’m a character in yours.
Shatter my reality,
tell me I’m your worst nightmare.

From corner of eye’s mind the luminescence of lamplight spills.
A startled stumbling, a fumbling with covers out of worlds and into new ones.

Is it love?
Or is it Fanta sea?

Kaiser Clown

borrowed shoe:
stolen foot.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

auf die frei zungen ich kennt -
   (of the three tongues i know) -
ich kennt zwei
    und kennen eine:
    (i know two and know of one):

auf die frei: ich lieben dieser
                        äußerst
(of the three: i love this utmost)...
                      
    in my youth i spent a good deal of time
watching Disney's Robin "fox" Hood
cartoon in German, somehow it rubbed off
on me...

      i was never born with anything even remotely
resembling the love of the English language...
can there be a love akin to the Anglophile
that excludes the love of the language?
i love everything English except for the language...

each day i'm slowly planning my escape
into womb of the mother of the isles that
was first spoken in Saxony...
         tired Bavarians? tired Pomeranians?
but the Saxons were a landlocked people
who gave them the courage and adventurous
spirits to claim the seas with more than
oars and steer the winds with
sails?

      English didn't come to me as some
poor Romanian kid listening to current pop music
or back then, early 1990s... movies from Hollywood...
i didn't want to speak gimmicks...
i was ****** into the deep-end of speaking this
tongue by starting off a mute...
even with the influences of cartoon network
none left a too great impression on my ears
as the German version of the Disney cartoon
of Robin Hood...

   even after watching the English version many years
later... i can still hear the German dubbing
and i can't escape it...

auf die frei zungen ich spre(s)chen es
mit ein konkurs auf substantive...
(of the three tongues i speak it
with a bankruptcy of nouns)...

        at least i have made progress with predispositions
and conjunctions:
i am better coordinated...
but how... how can one be an Anglophile
without a love of the language?
i can adore the way the English care for
the countryside... how traffic is managed...
how taxes are collected how foreign cultures
can slowly integrate and everyone can feel
somehow, seemingly at home:
even if the natives do not for a while...
but without a love for the language
i cannot be a true Anglophile...

                the beauty of Shakespeare disintegrates
when a simple German neo-folk is played to me...

   in der zwölften stund (sage vom untersberg)

- in der zwölften stunde -
at the twelfth hour
- wenn die raben fliegen um den berg -
when the ravens fly around the mountain
- tun sie lautstark kunde -
they loudly proclaim
- von des kaiser macht und tagewerk -
the emperor's power and legacy
- solang der kaiser schlafet -
as long as the emperor sleeps
- tief drunt' im dunklen bergensschloß -
deep down there in the dark mountain *****
- solang fliegen auch die raben -
the ravens will fly
- hoch über seinem marmelschloss -
high above this castle of marble...

   no words in English, and their meaning make much
for... however simple they might be in German:
the simple fact that... they're spoken in German!
das: sie sind gesprochen im Alt...
    
it is only natural that i sought out the origins of
the English tongue in German,
as much as i am not interested in the etymology
of designated word:
i could never be this youth exposed to too much
English culture wishing to sing pop songs
or utter single line pin-pointers from
films: ehrilch mein schatz,
   ich tun nicht ein pflege
   (frankly my dear,
    i don't give a **** / care)
    or... ich wille wieder (i will be back)...

so the indentations of learning English in a later
developmental stage of language acquisiton
didn't rub off on me: as it does on people
with accents of their mother tongue
who never lose it... and merely culturally appropriate
English as a spoken tongue of culture
and not a "cultured" tongue...
native tongue: a shape-shifting accent
of an educated "class"...
    even today! West Ham was playing Everton,
Toffees... ******* Scousers... Liverpool dwelling folk...
two younglings asked me to speak to one
of the managers who took their banner away
expressing disgruntlement with
how the football club was being managed...
huh?! am i still in England...
i have an easier time understanding Scots
than i have understanding anyone from
Manchester or Liverpool!
i can't understand them!
maybe that's why the Scots are like the Irish:
they come from a proud literary history...
oh... i spoke to an Irishman today at
the football game... woke up at 3am to come
to the game... i understood him perfectly...
i can understand a Scot and an Irishman...
i wouldn't be able to tell you an Irishman
from a North Irishman...
but i could tell you decipherable English
of the Scot and the Irishman from
an undecipherable, local, "polyglot"
mishandling of the English language with
such local accents and idioms as that of
Liverpool or Manchester...
can't understand the *******: even if i tried...

obviously i can't relate to a love of Russian...
as they might say in Poland:
better 6 years of **** rule: by fire...
than the subsequent how many decades it was
under the rule of the Soviet rule: by ice...
a slow burn of war is more demoralising
than a quick stretch of spandex and all hell
and all fury and all hearts united
than this scuttling of rats and shadow-bullets
shot from shadow-pistols!

of course i would naturally side with the Germanic
side of my upbringing:
i have no itch for rekindling any Russian brainwashing!
and i know that the Germanic side of "things"
has become a breeding ground for feral creature-oids
that resemble as best cuckoldry and at worst
the shadiest parts of the ***-scenes in Amsterdam...
but... bone-headed Russians and their
pride... that Russian pride... it's one of those intoxication
liquid i want to drink any of!

hmm...
   perhaps because i know English as a utility,
there's nothing romantic in it for me:
i buy bread with it, i ask: i used to ask for directions
in it, i ask someone in that conventional
formal way how they are and hope for the less *******
that most Americans reply with: how all is dandy
and it's all Texan blue above and not
the grey of the island skyline...

i did think for a moment: i should haven taken a step
further and attached myself to Swedish...
or Norwegian...
but then that's what a German would do...
as an Anglo-Slav it was only natural for me to succumb
to the allure of German...
the natural dynamo...
i fall on German and the German falls on Swedish...
or Danish...
**** knows who the Scandinavians fall on for
inspiration... the Finns?!
after all: the Finns are somewhat Scandinavian:
more Inuit people than...
        
one is a tongue one learned: or, was rather thrown
into learning...
but it's unlike a learning from it being passed on...
no one passed English down to me...
i'm a first generation immigrant...
i learned the tongue in the same time
as my parents learned it...
unlike all those 2nd generation immigrants
who were born in this land
and learned this tongue outside the dynamic
of their parents learning the language:
the only difference being...
i kept the mother tongue, the native, intact...
by refusing my parents' claim that:
if i only spoke English at home,
the English i acquired from being schooled
in the English educational system...
if i forwent me speaking my native tongue
to them: their English would somehow improve...
that they would, somehow, miraculously not have
a foreign accent!
as a child i picked up three majors things...
Catholicism wouldn't take me... i might have been
baptised without my consent...
but i had all the necessary obligations to
give or not give my consent when it came to confirmation:
i haven't been confirmed... i head too many
Gnostic Heresy texts as a teenager...
their idea that somehow i would mistreat my native tongue
in order for them to gain something for it...
like most Pakistani 2nd generation children...
perhaps, maybe... a few slip through the netting...
who still pride themselves on knowing Urdu...
most? with their loss of the mother tongue pick up
their own idiosyncratic accents within the confines
of English: they are literally children robbed
of bilingualism by their parents...

i mastered it and by mastering it found it with
shortcomings that only the tongue i was born
with could expose...

today this alpha looking male sat next to me on the train
and spread his legs... smiling... listening to music...
**** me mate... how much spreading do you need to do?
what i found:
poetry, best read when commuting...
i'm building up a complimentary package for a friend
of mine... she sent me macadamia nut shells
and dried pineapple and honey and...
a feather... i said to her: i will not send you anything
before i compliment a feather you sent me with a feather
of my own... i went cycling two days prior
and: imagine my luck! some magpie... ELSTER...
was either shedding her feathers or was in a fight...
i picked up about half a dozen ELSTERGEFIEDER...
magpie feathers...
on the train... you're better off reading a book
of poems than a newspaper...
the optics are much more clarifying...
none of the claustrophobia and oczopląs
               of a tightly-knitted (printed) column or opinion
paragraph... spread out text...
  poetry books as an alternative to reading newspapers
in transit... that's how i imagine "it"...
once upon a time newspapers were tightly knitted
beyond the scope of the printed paragraph:
it would require the solitudes of Sundays
to sit in calm and quiet and read them...
these days: that tabloid press with headers
and exploding wordings for the newly acquired
people of literacy: the addition of pictures...

nothing new, therefore nothing old...
mein herzenskummer ist was giBt
                   der Sonnenaufgang seine
      rinnsal auf schüchtern farben...
und! unt!
        der Sonnenuntergang seine
    busen-auf-verkörperung:
                auf: das nie vergeht!

                   how easily the displaced spiders...
turn to new architecture of the spider web
should their former and no sooner
than sooner: distraught with the havoc
of a man's quill of fingers having to differentiate
walking into a spider-web confusing it
with: are my eye-lashes camel's now?!

some shifts at work are terrible,
esp. when working with two females...
everything is wrong...
even telling after-work jokes is wrong...
talk of fish fingers... loads of ketchup...
that's wrong too...
top it all of this one is joking about the other
and the other is lesbian
and she has a new girlfriend
and fish-fingers: well... i am a man and i never
equated the smell of ****** with fish...
i know that tadpoles and ****...
but never fish... fish fingers... *******...
ketchup? i joked: that time of the month?
no laughter... no laughter...
if women are joking about their horrid ****
i better not be asked to, ******* joke!

better working with mute men on zombie mode...
i'm already a year behind having my social medial
stalked... sure... they can stalk me when they
figure out my middle name and some Slovak
diacritical markers... not until then...
just because i look silly when ice-skating
and everyone has seen the video doesn't
mean i'll give up my internet presence so easily: so...
i have a project aligning myself to German
so close to my heart i can find it forgiving...
to desire in the heart-of-hearts
to: **** this tongue enough to speak it when drinking!
because i find that Wilhelm was sort of right...
about how Germany was no empire
expect something on the continent
that gobbled up a part of
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
because the Germans were an established people
and there was no sailing spirit in them...
after all: one might be inclined to think they
wanted to upkeep the romantic, familial orientation
of Christianity...
but the powers, the colonial powers at be...
whether the French the English or the Spanish...
who does, Christianity belong to, these days?
one might have asked the same question
before Christianity spread to the Nord Lands...
prior to its prior occupation with the Syrians
and North Africans and the Greeks...
Romans as a side joke?
who are the current mass of Christianity if not
the former colonies of the English
the Spanish and the French?
i know of Christians in South America from
the cross being dumped by the Spaniards with
vain hope... vain hope of the French in Africa...
and the English in Africa... and North America...

at least the Germans didn't... spread this...
Christianity might be allocated to about 12 individuals
within the confines of a single generation...
beyond that? money-grabbing money-laundering:
a religion with only the sole focus on LOGOS
while reading up on Zhuangzi you have several
other, dutiful terms to meditate on...
i might have been smitten by Hindu thinking before
being doubly smitten by Taoist dialogues...
one still remains a categorical imperative...
outside the realm of dialogue:
the best way you can help the world is
to help the world forget you and you in turn forget
the world...
obviously i'm doing X and counter-X...
i'm writing... by extension of writing i "want"...
or is that: "i" want to be remembered...
but thinking is no telekinesis nor is speaking
any telepathy...
             i speak... like today... i get this oddity of looks...
first she asks me: oh what should i reply
to my friend... just been to a Hen-do...
strippers? oh sure... there were strippers...
first time married? no... second... so what's the ******* point
of a hen-do? cluck x2 laid eggs x4?!
  
so her friend sends me a photograph of her newly bought
dress... laces... or whatever the ******* call
a would-be reimagined-curtain...
i tell her: she could pull it off... if she was a size 0...
the lace could really add dimension and curves to
a thin body...
to hide the skeleton...
but you know what would work for her?
a meringue dress...
you know the type? a one piece...
cut just above the ***** line...
simple: smoothed over... no patterns...
all the way from the cleavage to the feet...
so then she shows me her wedding dress...
it cost her £130 while her friend paid over £2000...
exactly what i was describing...
she just sent an AWW and tried to deflate the question,
or simply avoid it...
yeah... she looks like a flayed torso...
because... SHE's fat...

           eat all you want and as much (perhaps)
but at least burn it off...
if there's no work in the fields:
then there's no work in the fields...
but there's enough rubber burning on the bicycle
to escape the monotone drudgery of
urban living... as i found today,
upon Hook Lane cycling up to Chigwell Row...
there's no need to eat excessively...
no comfort in all that fat without
a leather chair or enough warm clothing...

treating people as these existential morons:
conceptualizing the non-existence of free-will is one thing,
another: to debrief them: life is without agency...
a choice-less Darwinism where
jelly-fish are somehow automated: sprouts:
well... no other life could or would ever be!
people without free-will is one thing:
the shackles of the dynamic of choice...
one choice sets you free, subsequent choice shackles
and inescapable binary of freedom-no-freedom...
science governing the flip of a coin...
but... people, robbed of any sort of agency?!
of self-authority over themselves:
so, so easily mangled and mishandled leaving
their fate unto... no fate: double sure...
unto others?!
i watched a few horror movies in my lifetime...
none seem as horrifying as this +mundaneness
of the horrible leftover: forgotten...

i must have a Germanic attitude toward these matters...
i was born into the living spirit of the ****** tongue,
the membrane in situ staging the conflict
of Rome vs. Greece...
or Germany vs. Russia...
i see no end to it...
i was born from the Germans trying to burn out
the Jews from "my" lands
while the Russians trying to subdue the flames
all the while...
i was still borne from a history that required
a solitary antagonist...
less so an protagonist of solitude...
either way: i was going to slither my way through...
like water like serpents...
wie wasser wie schlangen...

mein herz bricht aus hungrig flammen
als ich stürzen blind Samson's
already toppled temple
            
i know i that i will not write the sort of beauty
that's poetry that's everything that's
Zbigniew Herbert's
Godly Claudius
the Game of Mr. Cogito
Mr. Cogito observes his face in the Mirror
the Seventh Angel
   (my favourite of the angels listed?
Dedrael - the apologist and cabalist)
   to name but a few of the poems...

it brings such relief that i can't bring such
beauty into this world: perhaps if my mind was
not muddled by the utility of English
and my romance with German -
perhaps but only perhaps:
i don't even know why i started to write poetry:
maybe it was my lowest ebb
psychotic running on steam and pretend
legs between Edinburgh, Glasgow,
London, Dover, Athens, Belgrade,
Katowice...
                    walking into a bookshop buying
a copy of Rumi's verses...
buying Dostoyevsky's the Brothers Karamazov
and, just by chance... Bukowski...
what was so supposedly special and hiding
within the poetry of this man?
absolutely nothing: i was mad enough
to try it then and to keep at it:
not really knowing why...
  
compared to Zbigniew Herbert i write trash:
perhaps i read too much fiction,
even autobiographical prose: prose in general:
i don't know how to shut up the ten mouths
on the tips of my fingers but
i know how i can seem menacing
on a shift at work... hood pulled over my head
leather gloves squeezing each knuckle
asked by the atypical extroverted woman
whether something is wrong...
pulling my hood up, smiling, yet still being
compared to the grim reaper...
jokes aside: someone is counting the time...

a welcome break from Knausgaard...
this little safe-haven of poetry read in transit...
finally! something that's not mine
and not in English!

that's the terrible difference between men and women...
going to the Fulham shift i was sitting
behind three women... i'm guessing two were
newly arrived brides of war from Ukraine
who also picked up a Thai-surprise bride...
birds sound chirpier and more pleasant to talk
to... sitting behind them reading my little poetry
book... with a magpie's feather for a bookmark...
the women talked... about?
photographs... filters... instagram models...
plastic surgeries of people wanting to look
like their photographs...
impossible dreams! dreams of women...
and some womanized-men...
on my way back... same book same bookmark
and a young man sat down next to me...
put on some decent music i could
make out through the headphones...
angled his horizon to look over my shoulder
as to why i was reading a book with so much
open space and so little words...
not any fiction, not some constipated prose
of imaginary conversations...
and i could feel his leg pressing against mine...

perhaps i am not gay but i can't imagine
being friends with a woman...
i truly can't... there's either *** for me: with women...
or there is friendship with men...
with each man i meet i can achieve this
transcendent: otherwise unpackaged will
of subduing and seduction that only a woman
can provide me... but a conversation with a woman
is painful: at least for the majority of times:
there might be a special place for a woman
who might not necessarily:
but is probably older than me and shares
the same sentiments as me...
probably lives far away and thinks that hand-writing
is like exposing herself all naked...
will go out of her way to send me a feather of a bird
from over 3000miles away...

while i will send her a necklace with a single amber
stone on it... or i will send her a crab's pincer with a hole
drilled in it and ask her to buy some leather-string
to have herself a second necklace...

at work Stephanie the supervisor had to make it adamant
for me alone to know that i would be her Alpha...
whatever the hell that meant...
Alpha... well yeah... because i do try to ensure that
everyone is treated fairly...
the Asians boys of Bangladesh and Pakistan caved it...
this work or this cold of England
finally bit them...
     it's an unrewarding work if you don't have
an escape plan, like i do...
i'm always flying to other pursuits outside of this
work... customer service... being polite to people
that might not be polite to you or simply ignore you...
but even my standards i thought they were
taking it too far...
but i made a pact with them...
they took out a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured
out shots... if there's going to be a snitch among
us... it will be the man who does drink...
so when asked if i'd like a shot i replied: why not!
the weather calls for it... whiskey to warm up!
mixer? oh no no... straight!
plus... you can't mix Jack Daniels with Fanta, can you?
a few new colts were bullied into peer pressure
of silence, asked if they wanted a drink: said no...
me? i had a drink... i'm not snitching...
well i did when Stephanie was coming round
when i just said: nothing about the drinking...
but if there are 7 of us standing in one place...
but i'm the only one giving any customer service
by giving directions and good-evenings while
they're just standing talking to each other,
having a good time? apparently some people still
can't internalise being drunk for their own
self-amusement, drinking is somehow: getting together...
clearly these boys haven't been alone
and drank a litre of whiskey each and every single
night for months on end...

what really bugged me is when they took out a spliff
and smoked it between the four of them...
even as the customers were coming to see
Tottenham beat Fulham 1 - nil...
oh for ****'s sake... it's one thing having a cheeky sip of
whiskey on a cold day to warm up...
but to also smoke marijuana on a shift?
in full view and easily scented air of winter
before customers?
these guys don't want this ****** job...
thank god none of them are either bus drivers
or train drivers or plumbers for that matter!
maybe doctors who forgot to take out a pair of
scissors from a patient's body when
the patient is getting stitched up?

the worst i ever did was drink the night before
and sobered up on my way to work...
ah... not to mention that one time this
girl tried to scout her paranoia from prior relationships
with abusive alcoholic boyfriends onto me:
a man she just met... pampered with an array
of chemicals whether that be a cologne or this alcohol
containing face spray...
who i later tried to sooth by bringing her my homemade
weisserwein... cloudy... like any weisserbier...
chirpsin'... 3 way conversation conspiracies...
until the lie stood on dwarf's legs rather than stilts...
and to think: no i wasn't thinking seriously about
getting into a relationship with her...
she tried to get me fired for "apparently" drinking
on the job! a person she just me...
neurotic ******* *****... it's good that i showed her
what she would never, ever... get...

the difference between men and women...
the shift finished... prior to finishing we already knew
that there was some major ****-up on the tube...
the signals went down...
no Circle line, no Hammersmith & city services...
no services on the District line
from East Ham to Earls Court...
ergo? you'd think there might be a northbound
service to Edgware Rd. from Putney Bridge...
nope... Earls Court is a 4 x 4 junction...
sure... there was the southbound service
from Putney Bridge to Wimbledon...
and whatever service that's a station after
Earls court toward Richmond and Ealing Broadway...
as i'm guessing from Upminster to East Ham
and from one station after Earls Court
to Edgware Rd....
this girl was supposed to come with me
to Stepney Bridge from either Romford or Chadwell
Heath for the shift...
i was 15 minutes late because i felt like getting some
tea and an almond croissant...
she was? an hour late...
by the end of the shift when the transport invonvenience
was building up we went for our debrief
and she was all irritated in the eyes
when she wanted to get an Uber to Hammersmith
or whether it was she thought about going
without telling me: where that would cost her £50+
quid...
                  so when i told her...
i'm not going down the Putney High Street rail connection
because: (a) look at the ******* congestion
of the crowd and (b) i don't need to go to *******
Waterloo because that's ******* south of the river...

mmm hmm mmm... what, should we do?
i told you... i'm either walking or getting the bus 220
to Hammersmith...
debriefing over: she stayed behind for banter
and all the things that hinder an extrovert,
esp. a female extrovert... un-decisive, fatalist,
everything just ******* happens by some whisper
from astrology...
    Aquarius said to Libra that the waters were
about to spill... i ****** off from the stadium
like a hart... shook hands with the managers
thank you goodnight... as i was walking out
toward Hammersmith some young stewards were
shuffling really quickly it all looked very much like
they might be scratching vinyl...
i asked... you heading to Hammersmith?
yes yes... see! that's i like to see!
male to male camaraderie...
we have this unconscious motif of: from *****
you came to ***** you shall return...
it's a bit senseless to go to war these days...
less senseless when you're trying to get from
point A to point B...
there was about 40 of us running for the bus...
amongst us? 1 woman...
***** AHOY!
   obviously i left this girl behind...
her other option was asking one of the managers
to giver her a lift... ******* free-loader...
by the time the manager would have clocked out
all the other parties i would have wasted an hour...
just to get a lift... and then what?
stranded with her? even though we weren't going
to the same point B?
   i left with the *****-mentality... happy too:
because i could read my poetry book in the prized
possession of solitude... and no solitude...
because given the hour... something freakish was
bound to happen on the train or tube...
and it did... some proper English boys talking about
not wanting to take a nightcap in Romford heading
all the way to Shenfield joked when this guy started running
down the train carriage...
and those SKANKS so drunk who were blocking
the doors: subsequently delaying us
subsequently not catching their train blah blah...

well... just as today happened: talking so freely to men,
boys, young men, first point of "concern" / conversation?
establishing "taboos" or habits...
you smoke? you drink? first time you got drunk...
when did you start smoking marijuana first?
and then a natural progression into...
so... what music do you like... just... so naturally?
with women? even with Francesca,
this butcher boy of a lesbian...
it's a cul de sac sort of conversation...
she only talks about herself,
even today i received a text from her...
i broke up with Natalie... broke up i.e. she met her
on Tinder... she stayed round her house
for three nights... Natalie made her lunch for
work one time... cooked dinner another time...
4 days and nights they dated... already broke up...
there you go... Tinder-dating-shoplifting hearts...
window-shopping romances...

free market capitalism? sure... but not when
capitalism overstretches its influence
and we're worse off than the despairing existentialist:
PHILOSOPHERS of the 19th... the precurosor
fabric... i'd say the 20th century existentialist
philosophers had it easier...
but anyone in the 21st century, thinking, even remotely:
would be hard pressed not to express something
of substance bugging all of us:
no great war, no great upheaval,
proxy wars, the Thespian dictatorship over all
the other arts (with the exception of pop music, perhaps)
and the journalistic juggernaut of the quickened
availability of almost anything and nothing...
the free market of capitalism having invested
in creating this... Frankenstein in pieces...
this IKEA ******* LEGO model of a Frankenstein:
but at least Frankenstein bothered to construct
the entire monster rather than creating this
shattered Pandora's box... left in pieces and in
some realisation of a Copernican West...
in a Copernican East... Copernican "west"?
there's a "west" without a setting sun?!
up in outer space?
                         capitalism all fine and dandy:
but not outside the realm of a couple worrying about
how many kettle and toasters sets they will
have to buy during the year or even the wardrobe
needs revisions, or whether it might be worthwile
to change the wallpaper in the living room,
or what movie to watch on a date night at the cinema...
all of that is gone when the free market made
us profile ourselves... with some of us being pushed
so far as to fake cubist like pictures of ourselves
and subsequently implement plastic surgery to
double-fake ourselves...

the shrapnel-shelving-of-self...
it's like people are a library with no alphabetical order:
free market on psychology, morphed beyond
any concern for dreams: if there were any
as the luxury of the Freudian rich...
this... what happened to historiology in the modern
sense as stressed by Heidegger?
a study of history of the people by the people
or at least by individuals... morphed into this grotesque
pop psychology: archeological mapping back
to the primordial Pharisee of Ape and Aping...
farce: Darwin's Curtain of History...
   will we ever remember the beauties and horrors
of centuries from the 16th to the 19th?
no... everything of said years is nil: null...
because the ape's origins quickly morphed into
the man hunched over a microwave adamant in his
belief that... the carbon footprint of producing
a kilogram of chicken meat somehow, somehow would
"save the planet" than producing a kilogram
of tomatoes... given that a kilogram of tomatoes would
only yield a fraction of the necessary calories
than a kilogram of meat... and still the growing
of one kilogram of chicken would cost the planet
less than growing a kilogram of tomatoes...
who needs tomatoes in winter?!
eat, your, ******* root vegetables! carrots boyo! carrots!
but chickens don't need solar energy, nor suntans,
nor greenhouses... chickens cluck just as much
in winter as in summer... and eggs are a year round
product... plus you only need a barn in winter
to keep chicken!
tomatoes rot... chickens? they grow old and die...
until they grow old they still produce eggs...
and when they die? you eat them...
you can't exactly call a chicken rotten if it isn't already
days X already dead, can you?
it might not be as fresh... but...
ugh... no wonder

Zbigniew Herbert: from mythology (of Rome) -

   in the end only the superstitious
neurasthenics carried in their pocket a little figurine
made from salt, resembling the god of irony;
since then there wasn't a greater god.

then the barbarians came, they too greatly prized
the idol of irony.
           they pounded it with their heels and sprinkled
it into their dishes.

no clay-monster of the Levant can intimidate
me now!
not armed with these words:
let us witness the great divorce of man from woman!
let us watch!
pray... let us be brothers and friends and
secretly wishing we were lovers:
in the thinning air... let us talk about the strange
glow above the Thames hanging over Kew Gardens
as if: as i said to him:
as if the sunset still claiming an eye
in the night...
      what woman? what woman could i share
this romantic conversation with?
my interaction with women is so blatant so cold
so forced to claim the male in me and the woman
in her that it's only ******...
oh sure... i was going to the brothel...
but i was coming home already late...
i had two pairs of socks on, drawers, trousers...
a tank-top a shirt gloves and a thick coat...
by the time i would get out of all those layers
and have a quick shower...
half an hour i would have paid for would have become
nothing more than 15 minutes...
not enough time to get a hard-on
of being in the mood...
i already had more than ***...
a conversation... and no woman has yet to actually
provide me with one...
perhaps we are not in the trenches...
but men have always managed without women...
for as long as time knows...

a shift prior... at West Ham... ******* guy with a bald
head and a face as endearing as a plump baby
we great with a handshake that turns into
a thumb against thumb contest and a hug
tells me that i should come and find him at Cavern Cottage
and he'll sort me out with some free food...
hey presto i go and find him
i get a free steak and ale pie...
i know it's a one off...
    we already get discounts for burgers from the burger
van... but it's nice to give a reminder when
being invited...

     we do our rounds in the park...
among the Pakistanis and the Bangladeshi who at first
thought i was British when asked:
oh no... i'm not British... an Anglo-Slav at best...
from that lineage of Anglo-Saxons...
the Saxons who came among post-Rome rule
Britain and mingled or not mingled
with the local Celtic and Welsh and Britton populace...
i'm the second wave that didn't make it
because the British Empire collapsed
and the eastern Europeans were not too dearly minded
in the history of the British Empire...
but they know that i'm from Poland
so when asked: where are you from? there...
and "there"... but i've been living here since i was
7 so there's no "born and bred" argumentation
with me and those in your ethnic stratum
concerning any anti-Pakistani villification
of those in the "upper-castes"... blah blah...
they know... while the three of us walked around
this 40 year old Yugoslav woman
who escaped the Yugoslavian collapse of
circa 1992... starts talking as i switch her around
so she can have a walk with us to warm up her legs
from standing stiff still...
where are you from? oh... here...
i'm not going to tell her what i told the boys...
not after she deflects my attraction to her
by paying more attention to the Pakistani boy
of 20... i'm closer to her age...
but... then she does this sick thing of asking
me to hold her empty cups of tea that
have an unused teabag in it and some dried milk...
oh... right? i'm going to be your waiting boy?

******* testing women... this woman is past her prime...
i know it she thinks she can "test" my patience
by me being her ******* pet-shop-boy?!
fine! fine...
the more and more i talk to women
the more i find them diametrically opposed
to any sort of psychologically asexual universalism of:
ecce ****...
                 women have: and will have to...
sexualize everything from Aristotle to Zeno...
there was once a maybe female version of Aristotle if
only the: give me the drill... i need a bigger hole to see through:
these eyes aren't large enough...
if only there wasn't an oppressive patriarchy...
the oppressive "patriarchy" of autistic geniuses?!
oh... that one... the sort of men cowering
from female sexuality?
  wow! how oppressive!
                    magnificently oppressive!
we all should be so magnificently oppressed by the man
who discovered the wheel by meditating
the O(micron) - what came first?
the wheel or the omega, or was it the sun?
if Prometheus brought down fire... by teaching man
that scratching flint against flint could illuminate
the cave and give man a second womb of poison-fire...
before the forests turned to ash...
before Pompeii's negative of a whiplash of history...

i tried loving women... i loved them for:
the many months i would rather not use
the fingers of both my hands for...
    absolutely un-relate-able creatures...
what *** beside that of female would whisper in
man's heart to leave their minds without
reason to stage the Trojan War
                        or bring architecture to kneel:
like Xerxes: but the madness of Xerxes was rather
beautiful wanting to lash the Aegean into submission
rather than that little Pharaoh ***** who might
have said: best to chisel down a rock face
and glue together sand with egg-whites and spit
into bricks and polish up a craggy mountain:
lest we forget: from a lineage of a people
that once said: let us "reinterpret" the mountains!
pyramids...
                at least the South American tribes invented
the pyramid as an altar... not a tomb...
but we're no smarter than they were dumber:
the myopic-vision strategy of the vantage point
of: what came prior... with hindsight...
but hindsight only works in reverse...
the unmistakeably irreversible past
within the confines of the motto: the terrible
has already happened!
  
                       and some variation of the historically
terrible isn't already happening,
on some microscopic level?
                           not if / not yet?!
                                             hardly...

poetry is air and not the prose of water...
i am stranded between wanting to breathe air
and at the same time more in need to drink water:
no wonder i cannot rest with merely breathing air...
if only i were to breathe air and leave my efforts
with so much nuance as to allow others to breathe
the same air... alas i am like that saying of Heraclitus...
i'll pour you a glass of water
i have prior to drank... leave it for you to drink a day
later: it will not be the same water that i have drank...
i wish i could write like these words might be air...
but it's... aqua post scriptum et plus aqua
post scriptum ad fluenta...

                    verschließen dein augen:
    sehen wieder... immer wieder:
                               bis: es gibt
                             nicht freude:
noch aufschub träumen...
                              kalt silber-rasierer
                                 schneiden auf
mondklären... nacht als auch wirklichkeitstoff.