A treasure worth taxes
a machine that supplies
me with joy.
A better connection than
wifi and Hotspots.
you conquered all lies in me
established burning truth
Thank God for a gift you're
beautiful like night stars.

fairly hold tight to my heart
it hangs right in your presence
preserved by your gentle
touches and whispers
All penetrate me for comfort.

My gig is in hotspots
That’s what I do
I’m a journalist
I report the truth
But maintaining relationships is oh so difficult
Especially when there are landmines, IED’S
Bullets, missiles, kidnapping and assassinations
You gotta wonder, why me?
What’s with the danger?
There’s no good grief
But I’ve got editors and readers who want the truth
So here I am in Hong Kong, or Myanmar, spending my youth
I could have a girl back home
Instead I got an interpreter I love
Who wants to come to America — and deserves to as he protects me
But I love it, it sure beats the city desk
Every day is an adventure
Or a nightmare
Getting a haircut is tough
The food often *****
No end in sight for this life
Unless the world disappears

I walked across the bridge of your nose to connect the constellations
on your face. I was blinded by the solar eclipses in your eyes and
wound up where your universe began and I held it in my hand. I felt
it pulse life into the very edges of your galaxies.

Drawn I was with gravity to each of your hotspots. Running in
circles by the natural laws of physics, physically pulling me through
the natural laws of attraction. Deep-rooted into your wormhole,
taking me to another time and place, I could not tell you when or
where I was from.

Thwarting my universe into chaos by the 2nd Law of
Thermodynamics then breaking the 1st by creating something in
me from nothing. Ripping stars from cold space and shooting
them into the deep clusters once left empty. Exciting these *****
of flame into super nova’s scorching me from beginning to end.

Your telescopic lens would discern who I was and who I was not,
searching for truth no matter the distance. Altering my planets to
align with yours, spawning systems upon systems and then some
more, discovering rich life where none would explore, then leaving
your footprints upon more shore.

On that night the universe was silent. That same night you were
here and then you were gone, tipping the entropic scales back
from the first law you broke. I forever blocked out the moon so her
waves couldn’t wash what little was left of you. While she maybe
the only other knowing just how deep craters can crush.

Many my suns have died since then, where once my world kept
spinning has now completely stopped. Left with debris smashed
from a time that used to be. Falling slowly through cold and
empty space. Continually searching the universe for what science
calls foolish.

always back in
a monochromatic society,
twice a year...
   a nausea -
    of only interacting with whites
akin to myself...
most people will not understand
the nausea...
   and there is a nausea -
within these anti-major
cosmopolitan hotspots...
but the nausea passes...
   but in terms of a personal
psychology?
  i lose something...
   a game a learned integrating
into english society...
the... chameleon game...
   i never have that
in Poland, i'm back to square
one, generic,
like the rest of them...
       i prefer the English
multi cultural society for
personal, "selfish" reasons...
namely?
i can play the chameleon game...
i can speak two tongues
and four accents,
   reserving a fifth for
some Muslim who thinks
i have the ****** features
of a German...
       back home i'm just
a Pole among Poles...
      nothing that couldn't
be conceived as lack-luster...
back in England?
ah nay.. not exotica for
the women...
             i prefer the chameleon
game...
as it turns out...
not all immigrants huddle...
at least not all Polacks huddle
together in... communities...
communities of workforce?
sure... Poles coexist together
only in work environments...
socially?
    like a ******* dog & cat...
i don't know any Poles in terms
of community,
  or social interaction...
      no chance in hell...
never will...
   which shows...
when i travel back to Poland
to visit my grandparents...
**** me the nausea of being
an ant in an anthill...
      i once landed in Krakow
and fooled around
by pretending to not speak
the native tongue...
only interacting in English...
i felt sick...
            how?
   i eased out an ear of
compassion and spoke to her
when she approached me
talking about how her son
hanged himself and she needed
money...
   and there was this
immigrant Anglo with
a Polish girlfriend,
and some Miroslav with a
broken French accent who
emigrated to France and
forgot to speak the native tongue...
and the girl of the "expat"
was like: huh?!
    England is unique in that respect...
well...
not England...
   London... and London
is not England...
    England is not London
and Londoners were never merely
Cockneys...
last time i heard?
Jackie the Ripe-Piper
was probably a Jewish Pollack...
    i was born in a small torn
just shy of Masovia -
every, single, time,
the monochromatic nausea
of only seeing white people...
i guess... it must be the same
for a Nigerian who grew up
in England and gets to visit his
grandparents back, "home"...
women are different,
i'm talking about males...

           then again... ****...
a Nigerian can't exactly perfect
the chameleon game...
i've been Hungarian,
Swedish, but mostly German...
never a Pollack...

            back "home" you miss
the ethnicity roulette...
    i can understand the ultra-nationalism
of small towns of nations...
but i can also understand
the ultra-cosmopolitanism of
capital cities of post-nationalistic
states...

come to think of it...
    i'm only comfortable in East London...
west London is off-limits for
comfort, again,
equivalent to the monochromatic
nausea bound to urban Poland -
the tourists sticking out
like birch trees in a ******* pine
forest...

      it's all contradictory -
rural - small urban strongholds...
where people recognize you
via recognizing your grandparents
and your grandparents fill
the locals in...
   no problem...
   traveling through Warsaw?
a ******* gutting sensation
like some variant of William
Wallace being executed...
   Mongols, Ukrainians, Roma...
    the odd Lithuanian...

it's the nausea of the effect of
a revived commonwealth once seemingly
lost...
    unlike the British commonwealth
slowly disintegrating into
farce and: keeping up appearance...
pomp & circumstance
having replaced pride & prejudice...

i can walk down a shady East End
street and talk...
            and feel nothing but
a welcoming thrill of contempt...
   strap me to a crowded place in the center
of Warsaw...
and i'm disorientated,
like a fox in daylight...
                   wildly afraid...
all the time on my guard...

  and i'm! "supposedly" the native...
   merely having inherited
the language is no guard...
      i might speak "their" language...
but when it comes
to the several underlying
languages of human interaction?
****... i can walk down
some shady alley
of Whitechapel -
                           i've learned it from...
i guess...
that one time me and my three
friends were robbed
in South Park, Seven Kings...
two girls as bait...
and then 10 of them approached...
started kicking my crying
friend to the ground...
some **** about me asking
for my walkman back off of him
while he was getting kicked...

whatever it was...
   there are actually more languages
than the mere communicative
of a Fwench class of buying
groceries...
   there is the language that
extends into the surroundings...
   the sort of language
that allows you to visit a Goodmayes
brothel
and leave it
telling the girl:
   can i not shower,
so i can keep your skin's
perfume for a while longer?

  there is no chameleon game
when i visit Poland,
i don't visit Poland,
  i visit the dutiful grandson who
still has grandparents...
and that?
is the most boring game of chameleon...
i stop drinking, enforce
a self-styled rehab...
   read a book, watch Polish t.v.
befitting pensioners...
   sunrise... sunset...
   and give my grandmother
a holiday from cooking for
a dementia sufferer...

  but back in London...
              a parade of over 280+
languages... making the mold
in the shadows of off-limits Mayfair
and other, politico, ******-pots
of riches,
exhausted by the Sheiks
   and Mandarin Emperors
                 of the Lapis-Lazuli.

The first thing I see in the morning is your bright, soothing smile that leaves me dazzled and lost.
Whenever you are speaking to me, I can't help but look into your eyes. The mystery that they hold, oh my, my mind is studying, I am figuring out and my soul is dying know...it's sad to think I'll never know what you're thinking of me.
Whenever I am at one of your hotspots, my eyes search for you, and when they find you, sometimes I don't realize that I wasn't actually breathing. Even now as I type and remembered this moment I am finding it hard to breathe...
But then I stop and think to myself, Is my mind playing tricks on me? Or is it me who doesn't seem to understand you?

.what the most plush drink i've ever had? well, i'm drinking it now... Tennessee honey liquor by Jackie boy... mm, yum as ****... just ice, no mixer... what do you expect? at 35% vol strength, you're going to enjoy it on its own... mind you... i am going to a country where there are no 37.5% vodkas... 40%: standard.

- but i won't be drinking,
                 odd how i can turn off the drinking
whenever i go back, "home"...
it will be winter, really short days...
limited internet access, or, literally none...
and a 3 volume book i decided
to get through...
   the English language will be turned off,
and i'll be pulverized by
the language, t.v. radio,
everyone around me...
   not a single word of English being
spoken...
         it's nice to get away from
all the Anglophone drama,
whether on the internet with the vloggers,
or anyone for that matter...
small town Poland...
          early nights in the mid-afternoons,
a book, a single lamp light...
mind you... why do people always
choose to read a book on a beach?
how about i sleep in a lit oven?
or next to the radiator with a closed
window?
   i do not claim to be a quick reader,
i don't like reading quickly...
i already talk quickly...
       "slow" reading is so much more
engaging...
   but at least i chose a book that's
just over 1000 pages...
   5 weeks away? yeah, i should be
able to do it...
          what's it about?
the Great Deluge... of Poland...
   by the Swedes, when our aristocratic
democracy, the electoral authority
decided to give the throne to a Swede,
and subsequently his older brother invaded...
a historic epic, fiction, with
a pinch of historical truth...
you could even call it a reading holiday...
i.e. go to a place colder that's much
colder than where you heading out from...
and... make sure you're surrounded
by old people, perhaps your grandparents...
****! i knew i forgot something
when packing...
how am i going to cook them curries
when i haven't packed the spices?!
well... i could gamble on feeling refreshed
with 4 hours sleep...
or i could drink this right here
Tennessee honey liquor...
    lie down for an hour with closed
eyes, to rest them,
but prior to... prepare the spices...
the latter...
                  power naps are for the Japanese...
in their 15 minute hotspots...
oh they have them... sleeping hubs...
**** that sort insomnia diet...
give me a decent 8 and we're cool...
ugh... but the dreaded thought...
i live in relative isolation...
i interact with less people than
i have fingers... on one hand (most of the time)...
the dreaded airport...
the moment i walk into an airport
i just think of... transported livestock...
the liquor will certain take off the edge...
from having to see so many people
all at the same time...
               plus, i've done longer stretches
of staying awake...
dunno... once i might have teased
the 48 hour mark...
but with this beauty of a liquor in me...
bah!                 easy-peasy-Japanese;

and the music i'm taking with me...
on C.D. (oh! the travesty,
employing technology from the 1980s!):

dikanda - muzyka czterech strong wschodu,
żywiołwak - nowa ex-tradycja
wager - an assortment
schumann - fantastic pieces op. 12
beethoven - symphony IX in d-moll op. 125
egberto gismonti - solo
sonic youth - *****
fairport convention - liege and lief
neon neon - praxis makes perfect
queens of the stone age - rated R
!!! - strange weather, isn't it
handel - music for the royal fireworks
water music...

that certainly packs a punch...
now...
         to associated myself
with making portions of relevant
spices for the curries i'll be cooking.

it's raining,
but there's a whiff
of chlorine in the air,
which i find a bit odd,
i might be hallucinating
a scent with light penetrating
a body to a shadowy
consistency, but i still
get a whiff of chlorine in the air
and it's not good,
given that chlorine
is used to clear ****** hotspots
in swimming pools:
much humour comes from melancholic
weather... ask a californian where
the sun don't shine.... he'd probably
tell you it don't shine where the sun
don't set.... or some other gorgonzola.

yeah...
i seem to have forgotten
the prime,
of... keeping up
with the GENE...
no GENE no go...
         i seem
to have forgotten
that mind-set
of furthering
this existential
impetus...
           must have
flown right over my head
with a: quiff! sound
to accompany it...
no quiff...
sound...
but certainly an hour's
worth
sitting in a chair,
at a turkish
barber shop...
   funny thing...
no sight or conversational
hotspots
akin to either
         Beirut or Mecca!
without a god,
do i have to be made
conscript into the whole:
telepathy of the passing
on of the genes?
the Jews have returned
to the Levant...
          there really aren't...
any conspiracy theories
left to... "unravel"...
   the jews are back
in their homeland,
i'm strapped to, "home",
dealing with ronin...
           the camel jockeys
will continue calling
me dumb...
     i will preserve myself
as: playing dumb,
to whatever drum is
made available...
         happy days...
and we, as people,
will hardly talk to each other,
let alone share a meal...
so...
what's to win,
and what's to be lost?
   hardly anything
to win,
and all that is before us,
to lose...
    so... win-win? yes?
since, to me...
bragging-rights...
and... the fertile ground
of solipsism
to expand...
                into
a virology stature...
  before the authentic
autists will arrive...
grinding us down
to size...
     but i will not eat
a meal with...
but i will not
do the alphabet's worth
of this, that & the other...
and...
happily...
continuing with
     quasi-bravado...
the last remaining
day's worth
of keeping up with...
faking, escapism...
and... upon this route?
to no return...
unlike an englishman...
i am no actor,
i forget to be two-faced...
the german knew
what a ****** was...
the sort of man
that said:
i go in, i do,
   i am done,
i come out...
                     you
do the paperwork,
i treat a television
set like a fireplace...
   what's the problem?
you want me to
build on this simple
fabric of chores...
an existentialist
philosophy that...
ascribes sole
purpose of you...
not having began
where either
German or French
existentialist
philosophers ended?

           well...
                      good luck!

st. valentines' wouldn't
be anything,
quiet like...
         oh... only a few months
ago...
a ******* prescribed
me a remedy
for love...

               and she said...
it began with...
        'ensuring to not
keep a narrative'...
      so i figured...
ah... less magic... more grip...
oh but that isn't
what she said...
she only said: 'you're nice'
when i forgot to use
my genital parts
and paid 110 quid for kissing
her...

        i'll try to remember
more things to forget
                        in my life...

a European goes
to a brothel...
"forgets" to take a Saudi Arabian
meter of competition
with him,
to compete through
the existence of
a harem...

or a European cooks
a Raj curry...
and "forgets" to take a Raj
meter worth of competition
for the number
of chilies being used
in the sauce...

then the resonating vibration,
and a quasi-eloquence
being allowed a voice:
there's someone, alive,
right, now,
that...
               i just want to make
porch chops of,
and... by making them...
do not want to eat...
but, rather...
not evem dare
to feed 'em to the same pigs...
'ey 'ame 'om,
flush,
and 'ake up...
             sewage composite.

what awaits me?
dying the most,
                  unsatisfied man...
naunced rigor...
a conscience prescribed
insomnia...
           that, acted
in reverse...
               to what was
"supposed" to be...
    
                  all... and nothing
at all...
to be worth the scrutiny of
enduring to fathom
imitation.

What can I say?
I was a bad sunrise,
quick scudded to cloud
and withholding.

Look at it this way,
it was a great day
for pictures,
unshadowed,
no hotspots
to burn away
in a dance.

We were a function
really, a shallow
angle of incidence,
a glancing blow,
mathematic,
not prismatic,
no split beam,
just one garish
morning thing,

and a slow
overcast
trundle
to a setting.

I trudge on


I try to go forward.

Everyone has it in their mind that above all
we must    move    forward.

I feel weighted,

burdened and uncouth.

I wish I were grounded,

yet my feet sink deeper into the soot and soil,

I can feel the vermin dancing along my toes

the alleyways of my phalangeal webs becoming nightlife hotspots for the unsocial critters,

whose only friends are the decomposing dead.



I can’t breathe.

A self asphyxiation which brings me no pleasure,

restriction of the lungs is always fun in due time when a ****** is promised,

but there is no redemption waiting for me in this final act.



I trudge on




Unwillingly I push forward.

Yet with every step I take it becomes a deeper reality,

I feel the cold vines dripping in slime creep up and onto my shoulders

Adhering to me like tar to paper.

If I shouted,

If I did my best to produce a primal and shrilling scream,

would you answer?

Would you be there to cut through the insatiable adhesion,

the horrific monstrosity tattooing itself to my skin?




Yes…..I trudge on..

But before I go...Just know,



I loved every ******* minute of it