before lauching into browse mode -
i'd recommend two slow ciders -
drank in the gently falling rain of the garden...
waking up the scents -
finding some sort of inner-voice -
something not necessarily borrowed...

well... i did my cultural bit for today...
put on abbey road, on original 1969 vinyl
with all the crackling as i ironed
my father's shirts...

from earlier today -
that complete and utter dissonance -
the modern western family -
it begins with a story about the son
of shiva and parvati: ganesh...
his brother kartikeya... and a mango...

shiva and parvati wanted to both of them
to navigate the world three times -
for their efforts - they would be awarded the mango...
kartikeya did so while riding a peacock...
upon his second return to the place of origin
embarking for the third last time...
ganesh was simply finishing his
snacks...
then walked around
shiva and parvati three times...
resounding: well, i'm the victor...

when asked: why do you think you've won?
because you are my world...
family in the eastern tradition -
you could say that much italy and greece
borrows from the east -
after all - individualism - championed -
taking on the world -
i wonder if there are any
retirement homes in india -
or whether or not the husband takes
his mother in law under his wing -

apparently any family structure that outlives
its honeymoon period,
in the western lands... has to be...
pathological...
talk about the rent prices in London!
talk about the house prices in Essex!
talk about... the price of luxury in the west...

i too was thinking about making some
homemade mango ice-cream -
with just the bare minimum tickle of ginger...

- and please please - constantly repeating
to myself... get away from the opinion videos...
straight into the music...

the pathology of family: per se...
alt. the loser who
is still cooked up with his parents and gets along
with them -
will tend to the garden,
will cook meals - will make homemade icecream -
or the loser who pays strangers rent -
gets ripped off my ronin landlords -
after all... a man is bound to lose his family
once he marries - a woman will gravitate
to exposing him to her parents:
most of the time...

and when it would ever come to dating:
looks matter, apparently...
but after the initial aura of illusion is lifted
the woman retorts back:
i didn't marry you for your looks!
at least that's what it looked like...
i walked in first... 33 no addition to stress
howling down my back...
a father and a child walked after me
with the scream: icecream icecream!

hell... my soul was also screaming...
whiskey! cider! whiskey! cider!
german folk songs!
my ego will grow a pair of legs and i'll dance
in my head!
walking up to the cashier she looked
at me as if inquiring:
don't you want the same as he?
i retorted without speaking:
why don't homosexuals ever get
that sort of question
bound to a mere look shared between
strangers so innocently,
so imploringly? ah... i a man, you a woman...
third degree burns from...
one hell of a bitch i will never forget!

sure, i get it, i'm "missing" out...
perhaps i have a father,
but i somtimes doubt whether or not
i didn't become a father unto myself -
as i wait to marry death and give birth
unto myself...
proper...
i don't even know whether my dreams
are more ridiculous or whether my life is...
i guess my life is...
after all... however ridiculous
a dream becomes - it's always foggy -
and kaleidoscopic and never narrative prone...
or detailed... too much kandinsky jumping
up and down in a puddle that allowed
a chemical spilage to corrupt it...

to have children out of fear of old age?
fuck me... that's tragic...
i never gamble - well... the grand national,
once a year... a quid...
perhaps 3 quid... but playing that sort
of gamble? what if you children hate you?
fuck me twice... that's scary...

i just want to stress that there's
no more pathology in remaining shackled
to your parents akin to ganesh...
shackled out of? last time i heard...
a poet gets paid every 50 years...
even if he gets paid at all... ha ha!

labor of love... i didn't marry you for
your looks! so the bitch put on all the work-horse
gear on the man, whip in hand...
whipped him into... whatever he was supposed
to become... the daddy'oh...
who would never read a paragraph of Kant...
no... this is not a pedantic boast...
either you father children...
or you father yourself reading Kant...
who said either was easy?

well... as they say about teaching...
if you can't live the sort of life Kant lived
and by living made an example to also allow
other men to live it...
you teach Kant...
who the hell would truly focus
on the quadratic of: synthetic a priori,
analytic a posteriori,
synthetic a posteriori,
analytic a priori?
beside the general jist of things?
hell with all the theories:
let me find the applied philosophy...
let me become a shadow of a tree
of Bower Wood, Essex...

well... i also could have become
the insecure loser who pays for the illusion
of owning his own place...
renting it... paying some stranger
for the luxury to call other "losers" his punching-up
critique of society...
perhaps i'm immune to the western
standard... am i alone?
em... one door down... the older brother moved
out, the younger remained...
single mother household...
two doors down?
the eldest daughter married a second time
and had a baby, her first husband beat her...
the second eldest daughter remained...
the youngest of the lot, a son, also remained...
gets through about 120 quid a week of weed...
although when not really asked...
oh yeah yeah... they chipped in with their parents
for a house just up the road...
but not they're renting it...
so they're still living at home...

why lie? i stayed at home so i could make
homemade icecream, tend to the garden,
drink like a sailor and take to verse!
if i'm going to get paid rice in 50 years time...
what is there to lie about?
i remember the last friend i had...
every time we met up for a pint...
he'd ask... so... what have you been up to?
i'd reply... nothing...
what... writing poetry is something?
feeding a crowd for picky amounts to anything?
rhyme amounts to anything
other than the sort of sound extracted
from throwing a tennis ball against a brick wall?

jean-paul sartre lived with his mother -
had a dyke pimp as he fucked university girls -
across the street?
single mom, divorced,
two daughters - the elder moved out,
had a toddler, still swings by -
i haven't even seen the man she's with -
perhaps she isn't with one...
the younger? she and her boyfriend return
to the house like rats... in the shadow
of the night - the mom picked up a new hubby -
i remember a time when all three of them
would parade naked while i was watching
a movie... that's before things settled
and each found their respective partners...

next to them? the list is endless -
but since when has it become the rule of thumb:
you will be ashamed of having parents,
or having to live with them because
the other two alternatives are:
the bridge / the woods / the streets or
to rent a boxshoe apartment -
start a youtube channel and brag about
"how you made it"...

no wonder western families fail so frequently:
there's an inherent pathology of family per se -
a noumenon that became a phenomenon
with the guardian statistic of 50% of marriages
end in divorce -
i suppose it will always be hard
for the most individualistic creature to live
his atomised life -
when he's not a predator -
only predators can live those sort of lives...

aside... i really want to get this off my chest...
it's a linguistic conundrum...
i really don't get any kicks out of it...
it's not exactly a case of penis envy...
that really died when i managed to give
a prostitute an orgasm and her reaction was
priceless: i don't know whether to call it
a horses' head, glum, or whatever...
god help you if the only thing you can
be proud of is the size of your penis...
you know what the greeks thought about
large penises? a signature trait of barbarians...
just saying: if your egoism is constrained
merely to the size of your penis...
there's hardly anything to overcome
when it comes to a woman faking it...
however large it is...
i always tended to fuck with the eyes
of suspicion - since i never fucked
to gratify myself (if you were uncircumcised,
as i am - you would know -
the foreskin is for masturbation...
while you can have the choice of pulling
the foreskin back... and fuck like a porno fuckboy toy...
chances are... it will be an excrutiating 1h+
and chances also are...
another prostitute will look at you like
some sort of demon when you haven't
ejaculated after the 1h passes)...

i'm tired of walking on egg-shells...
i'm tired of the N-bomb (ooh! ooh! fetish for...
whatever the word in its constrained
form has become) -
dr. dre spits it like a conjunction...
what oxbridge boy probably terms
an essex parade: white trash...
hence the N-bomb - neutron?
no! but i have a curiosity with
this: "upcoming" word like any man might
notice the nettle... the manner...
the ditto... two consonants bound
together... ѯywa!
(ksyva) nickname...
dzida! dziad!
dzida: spear...
dziad: lout...
i don't want to be walking on eggshells
when the word slips out of my mouth
that's in my head that's silent when it comes
to ref. something akin to the facial expression
associated with: bitch please!

dz in slavic = j in germanic
j(ot) in slavic = y in germanic
i in slavic = e in germanic...

what sort of ratial connotations are there:
i'm piglet pink, attempting to fade into
japanese porcelain pale...
white privilege my ass: sun-stroke
and if i don't watch myself in the sun...
hoping for that thai bronze...
i'm pinglet skinned -
and when i drink? crimson hunting...
white privilege?
i don't produce vitamin D automatically...
my buggered ass if i'm privileged
based on the technicality of skin...

again: what's with this penis fascination...
you're about to fuck an elephant cunt with that?
oh sure... the extra ass girth...
you know why you need a penis the size of yours...
once, i swear to god,
i once fucked a black girl with the sort
of ass that... as ever...
her coccyx was ramming the soft pouch
of the front part of my pelvis just above
the erection...
but that was once and i made her
some decent cocktails and put on
some cedric 'im' brooks to her in the mood
for fucking...
i will not mention...
i will... another black girl...
single mom... plump... chocolate dougnut
in moonlit with a coconut glaze...
n'ah... n'ah... she takes me home...
her two children are sleeping on the bed...
she pulls them off the bed onto
the floor and then expect me to fuck her
pretending her squeezed thighs are
are vagina... i can't i tell her...
she doesn't kick me out...
later in the night this little Bambo is standing
at the foot of the bed sucking on his...
imitation nipple...
i pick him up and lie him onto my torso...
sorry... but the sensation of afro...
on the tip of the fingers?
like putting your fingers in spaghetti butter...
i'm naked, he's naked,
he falls asleep i fall asleep...
hello albino masai chieftan in east london...

how many more explanations do i have to give?
nigerian...
well... you can hide than GG away in
niger-aryan...
it's still going to be a linguistic play on words:
do i have to use the word? no!
when it does slip out when i would
chance the encounter of talking freely,
uninhibited about jazz or blues?
i would hope to expect so... to make a general
observation: an urban slang comment
rather than a racial slur...

nigerian... in slavic you can't escape
saying the word nigger -
nige'ryjczyk
nigerian...
Nigh-dzeeria...
NI-geria...
it's a bilingual phonetic blockage...
i'll say nige'ryjczyk without thinking twice...
what? that's how you say nigerian in slavic!
and then upon returning to germanic
i have to mind the extra giggle of a GG
when stating: Niger... Nigerian...

j(ot) in slavic = y in germanic
not exactly true... ply - without a why for an i's worth
of the eye of a cyclops?
again, again, and thrice:
no diacritical markers in english, equals?
too many particular deviations from
unique letter isolations...

Plymouth - where the germanic Y behaves
like a slavic Y...
(western slavic)...
dzehovah (jehovah) -
yahweh (jechowa) -
exactly... it's not Ply-mouth...
it's Pl(y)mooth...
jeep : dzip...
yes = jes...
Justine = Justyna...
the translations will never correlate...
english doesn't correlate with languages
that have acquired diacritical markers for letters...
and ascribed similarities
to the graphemes beside greek or roman
origins...
or whatever technicality is blocking
me to represent j(ot) in slavic = y in germanic:
well shit on me...
joga = yoga...
no... not dzoga... joga yoga...
you're not jogging... or... y'oh-ging...
what a mess...
imagine me becoming a polyglot...
bad idea... i'm already a mess as a bilingual.
throw in some cyrilic and some greek...
and we have ourselves a party of 4!

p.s. i can tell you what nigger looks like in slavic,
i pray you will not be able to say the word...
czarnuch... i never say it...
never had the need to do so...
it always began with the nursery rhyme:
murzynek Bambo:
w Afryce mieszka , czarną ma skórę ten nasz koleżka
a gdy do domu ze szkoły wraca ,
psoci, figluje - to jego praca -
a poem for children by Julian Tuwim.