election night: labour? not really... they really don't have
the razzmatazz of a youthful blairite wave...
new labour requires: youth...
just as much as what the catholic church requires:
jude law in the front-runner role...
a young pope: none came as young as pope john paul II...
you can be an old conservative and "win"
(win... keep the status quo)...
and you can be a young conservative...
but you can't be an old labour candidate...
you can be funny-man-man-on: Бoрис...
how do russians really pronunce their B,
in the given example? B'woris... they sort of bulge
at the neck: they're saying something while
trying to swallow something at the same time...
they almost puff up... and this is me...
with a long forgotten ex-girlfriended that minded how
polish people speak like some cheap Dostoyevsky
joke fresh from Warsaw...
sh ch zzzz etc. - if she only saw what i write now...
she would grow pale...
besides: it's past 10pm and i'm late for the polling
station - i live in a democracy and i:
"forgot" to vote... perhaps i wanted to state a veto...
perhaps... as my civic duty...
well... perhaps when there was a time and men
were forecefuly conscripted into the army...
if i HAD to go to the army... rather than:
if i HAd the choice to go to university?
well at least the army would have sharpened my resolve
to wake up with better punctuation
than these words thus scribbled down...
i'd live a life according to: 2 + 2? 4! herr kommandant!
2 x 6? 12! mr. right!
- and that would be the end of it...
so many mornings i'd walk to lectures in edinburgh
and see these pristine girls still wearing riding boots
to lectures... and oh, oh those very desired
university hoodies... riding boots...
ms. conservative didn't leave the farm: just yet...
no horses in sight... but still she was wearing
those riding boots...
i once brought a dictaphone to a lecture...
sat there, arms crossed...
while i watched eager students scribble...
i figured the dictaphone was of good quality...
i would re-listen to the history lecture back "home"...
oh yes: i'm the minor giant of detail...
so many autobiographical details make me ashamed...
like getting that 70% first in french class...
i figured... if i'm going to have a french girlfriend
i would later lose my virginity with...
i'd learn some french... i was terrible at high school
french: a D in GCSE... i should have learned
german: i could pass bad german grammar
using good english grammar... some peasant was bound
to understand a whittle bit of a gutten-morgen!
or: das ist gutt: ja ja... a Polack just said: I I
and a spaniard laughed a very irritating laugh...
why didn't i vote... isn't it my civic duty?
but i did get a 70% first in a french class...
i bought the outsider by albert camus on a whim
from an oxfam's bookstore on: nicholson avenue...
second rate: like leather... i sometimes like
reading books that i know have signatures of them having
been read by others... if someone was to own my copy
of Ezra Pound's Cantos? a mystery tour-guide:
coffee stains... mummified flowers...
a ticket from the royal opera house: le corsaire
" " " " " " " : werther...
mirror with shelf ergonomic instructions...
a self-portrait of ash... some rubbed green leeves...
a ciggarette burn on a page for an eye...
ash from ciggarettes...
again: i sometimes forget how many of the TT or the GG
there is to a spelling: yes - i agree... is aesthetically
pleasing: but is it cigarette or ciggarette?
if i check (which i will, the whole mystery will be gone)...
something about the clarity of syllables in english,
sometimes: just sometimes... bothers me...
it's questionable whether cigarette looks better
than ciggarette; in all 'onesty...
there's no WHOM (WHOOM - umlaut pool, tool)
and there's a surd in "honesty" too...
no wonder i'm crap at †-words...
i'm already a †-word being bilingual...
i am english (-) while being born into western slavic (|)
like so... and i don't do word games...
i sometimes wonder how people would rather
play a game of anagrams to learning a second language...
surely we could all be bilingual by now...
like the dutch or the scandinavians...
but there are still people who have to entrench themselves
in anagrams and: given poetry: the 4th dimension
akin to: acrostics!
William the dead willy
Attention starved...
Veered into
Ease when he found a power nap of
Sleep in a tokyo pod...
but there's no reason to learn another language...
there was a reason to visit Paris and find a girl
who spoke french for me...
once it was an italian... once it was a russo-canadian...
what was ever an: english-man in paris
stareotype... god... that first night the first time...
with the eiffel tower as my sat-nav...
paris circa 2004... what a paris: what a year...
besides this... i am willing to entertain language as a custard
and gravy...
if... well no one is going to explain to me why:
i'd like to be a focus for some voyeur...
i live in a vicinity of a cul de sac...
let's say: 80 people... i "know"... 1...
the rest is filled with the motto:
each to his own turnip patch - each to his own
peeling of turnips... we do not need any relation
with those we live alongside...
we need the cold metal and marble and concrete
of unfallable bureucracy!
yes: and those long queues... we need those...
we're civilised enough to stand in those centipedes...

christianity and the old pagan fathom of the demigods:
it's "kinda complicated" -
sons the gods: hercules, pericles and the like -
much can be... digested... from a perspective
of polytheism...
but? from a perspective of monotheism?
it sounds like an incest riddled "miracle"...
and here's the "logistics" of such an endeavor...
the son is the father and the father is the son...
incest or, not?
it's still backwards to this day:
this foundational pillar of current society...
incest riddled... an "oedipus complex", "riddle"...
a son is born... fucks his mother...
and what the fuck is born?
does the mother call... her son the father
of his... "whim"?
christianity is too dark for even nietzsche to
compensate with his concerns regarding nihilism...
i'm less right or left of any centre...
i'm a fatalist: everything in between
is based on the "swing-vote" of vogue...

christianity is dark... it's even more thick and black
custard fudge than: macbeth's conspiracy
of murder... once more:
it was, once upon a time... clean and plain...
a belgian platitude of events...
the gods meddled in wordly affairs because:
th russians weren't doping their athletes...
but then again:
it's not like the u.s.a. or the soviet empire
were ever going to be any good at soccer...
so... why ban the russian footballers
and line them up with the proper term: atheletes...
shouldn't we be checking the bolshoi theatre ballerinas
for doping?! gross misrepresentation: i guess...

again: when there was a time for greek
demigods... we didn't have this: greco-hebrew "conspiracy"
to undermine the romans...
they managed their whittle salute of freedom
and then what? imagine how the greeks
and the hebrews conspired against the roman
empire... the new testament is a credit of the greeks...
why admire the greeks?
the demigod ease of thought surrounding
excesses of purposive individuals:
individuals born to be beside their overt-natural
capacities: to be fables (fay-blah-blah):
to turn modern historical integrity from
journalism into myth...
and: oh... hey-zeus comes along and...
the demigod scoop is over...
the incest brigade comes in...
the one god... the one: true god...
becomes incarnate... and in the 33 years he's
a baby... his throne is... left... empty...
so who comes and warms up his ass on the throne?
the adversary...
to me it's incest... perhaps if there was that:
zeus rapes europe told in those Kazakh stories for
children: we could see the north of south
and the east from west...
but?
i find it troubling to live among people who
would strive to keep this boogie man afloat
above any other fiction...
to me writing fiction is: pointless with this
vatican pillar of: chiselled marble...
i'm not exactly sure whether i'm paranoid
or whether i'm the next turkey readied for the slaughter...

a demigod i can entertain...
but... something akin to:
a son fucks his mother and the mother has
to decide whether to call...
what she's about to give birth to...
a son or... not even close to a window-licker...
that's how you desecrate the altar...
i'm not about to sign up to Islam Inc. but...
i have a realy problem regarding my imagining of:
how will i fudge-pack this trinity triangle
via a hole that's a circle...
i clearly am aiming to hammer in nails
using a fucking jigsaw piece!

because i really want nietzsche to become tame
by comparison...
yes, demigods, the usual suspect of envy...
the usual envy of slighting...
it's all there: if you aren't a demigod...
and you can't transcend the "footnotes" -
clearly: you're also a footnote...
or at best... laid back Homer...
and with becoming blind you solidify the said
statements...
but the logistics behind the reasoning
of: a one and only, true, demigod?
so... if god became incarnate...
who was running heaven?
last time i checked: no one was!
unless... the logic works:
god descended from heaven...
ah... the devil was allowed free reign over it...
god descended to hell... and in the meantime...
some devil or other is about to fall
from heaven... live a life on earth...
and... re-organise hell according to...
the old ways...
the grand swastika of change: nothing changes...
otherwise "don't try" or... ahem... "good luck"...

i still find it pristine to enjoy music when...
i'm perched on a windowsill...
sitting and smoking...
perched like the hunched crow quasi bel mondo...
only listen to music in "crisis mode"...
always unsure whether i should be looking
for third parties akin to a voyeur...
i'm hopeful...

nonetheless... in between drink?
sometimes i smoke a PHAT camel...
but sometimes i roll... naturally: a rollie...
on the odd occassion i do find myself in the possession
of a 50g bag of goldren virginia tobacco...
and yes... it's not cheap...
so i know a few romanians that do the silk road
type of law and typos... transcendence!
wow, miracle word!

- there is an art regarding rolling a cigarette...
once in Glasgow i was waiting for a bus...
some old timer was attempting to reach me
how to play the guitar...
his right arm was the neck / spine of a guitar...
his left arm was attempting to teach me
the tablature C's and D's...
i knew them but i figured: zip it up shrimpy...
he just visited his brother in prison...
and this was Glasgow and not Edinburgh (
that bastion city of english student tourists)...

but rolling a cigarette is quiet different...
no wonder my grandfather peered from behind his
dementia and said: you should work in Cuba
on the cigars... or be that one famous case
of rolling joints for Lenny Kravitz...
he didn't say the last part but...
i like to stress dimensions...
6ft2... 18st42... and i can roll these fine fine
8mm tobacco "shots"...
the trick is... you have to roll it but after rolling it...
you have to fiddle with the rollie...
golden virginia tobacco is quiet moist...
which makes it perfect for rolling...
but given that it's moist...
you need to loosen it up once rolled...
and then you have to work the cigarette lighter
across the rollie to... dry it up...
in order to smoke it more freely...

i did conjure up this fact with my one sole
companion... england an almost full moon...
first: watching a cluster of clouds move like mist
over the bare-bone visage like a tsunami of
horses... then... trotting horses...
then... the grand finicky orb disappears behind
a custard of clouds...

would i even begin writing - if i could "write" a ghost written
autobiography of the most stupendous of lives?
like most bricklayers of celebrity in the anglo-sphere
seem to end up doing?
my spectacular life... ha... and all the linguistic details
in between?
i have some more, stashed somewhere
with the over-boiling of soup in a saucepan
for some future tomorrow... devoid of today...

thank god i'm not one of those rigid FORM minders...
poetry: has to rhyme...
no... i just don't like the claustrophic myopia
of a grand fiction paragraph...
we are allowed to deviate from using paper... no?
i write: "poo'e'tree" because:
straitjacket prose... paragraph...
if we're all going to be such adamant environmentalists...
why not re-introduce the ¶ (pilcrow)?
save space... save the planet...
and we can go one step further...
the irish caught up with the polish way of writing...
we really don't need any "dialgue" -
or 'the sun is a burden at noon', he said...
'not as much as the moon, in winter', she replied...
pingo-pong notation, snappy...
- the sun is a burden as noon.
- not as much as the moon, in winter.
"problem"... solved.

i really could write a critically acclaimed biography...
in that: i really could but then:
if i really can't write... then cameo cinema of memory
it will forever be... and if i can write...
there's still that dread...
of having to return to FORMAL language use...
this is all but a forgotten chest from Solomon's mines...
to write an INFORMAL language that...
that's not to the point of being so informal as
to give way for in-group preferences and acronyms
and graffiti and "paedo-look-out pointers"...
but i do remember the need to return
to a formal language structure: dear sir... yours sincerely...
to a bureucracy of language...
order, shuffling... categories...

but in the informal circumstances i currently find myself
in? i forget whether i'm writing or painting:
given my budget? i'd rather spend 20 quid
on a bottle of whiskey and "pretend" to paint...
of course i'm not painting: i'm free-falling in what
this sponge of a brain allows this otherwise -
saltless tongue to absorb when dipped into sea water...
osmosis etc.,
it doesn't bother me that i'm not painting -
then again: X-ray vision solidifies any hunger
for colour or a wonky chair...

by stereotypical standards: i am not a man...
if i were a man, an artist with a penis...
i'd paint, i'd sculpt... i'd be an architect...
does that require me to prefix a trans- to this "debate"?
not really... but i'm not what the stereotype suggests...
i did the gym bro bits and pieces...
i've seen the potential i gained from doing
everything soul-destroying...
yes... "free sex": in a relationship...
"free"... as long as i paid for the weed and
the oyster and clam date... and clothes...
at least with prostitutes i brought my own bourbon
(brothels... brothels are like bouron perfumeries -
titilating sicky sweet maple and wheat)...
that one surprise when i asked to perform
oral sex and she said: 10 quid extra?
i didn't laugh...
she can suck me off in the price for an hour...
but if i want to perform oral sex on her...
i pay an extra 10 quid...
i mean... if jack the ripper was alive...
i'd be telling that joke...

and i do find it funny... once i remember having
forgotten to have trimmed my pubic hair...
and she didn't mind and i minded should
she come back up with a afro moustache from
all the joys of ice-cream...
so i persuaded her... me you: body + body... heat...
let's pretend we're in the siege of Stalingrand...
smooching... teasing... lip biting...
octopus hands moving from feet to shins
to knees... to buttocks... bellybutton... belly...
the scent of hair... closed eyes... open eyes...
braille of the body... hushed yummy and other sorts
of niqab onomatopoeias...
prostitutes... to hell with going at them
with a phallic-esque replica for lack of a better
word of erectile dysfunction...
i just need a body to read...
sometimes a book is not enough...

i trust you'd know what a human body feel likes...
if you spend about half an hour prior...
rubbing your hands and finger-tips on bricks
or other stones or concrete...
or against a bark of alive wood; i.e. a tree?
you know what a human body feels like...
when you find yourself rubbing your hands
and finger tips against stone?
just prior to entering a brothel?
it's like: from now on... all i'll ever do...
is change baby diapers and pillow that pickled
plum ass with powder...
all i'll ever be is a: baker...
i'll work with bread-dough in reverse...
first the firm dough of added yeast...
and at the end... raw flour...
notably cornstarch...
that's how a body feels like... after you've rubbed
your hands and fingertips on bricks...
110 and hour? 10 quid to the madame?
10 quid to perform oral sex?
once every 2 years? or longer?
there's much more than just going up there
with a wet willy 'appy whittle richard...
you need to rough-out / rough-up your hands...
and... you have to walk in cipher-blind...

i really miss Amsterdam...
this would be nowhere near a taboo subject
back there... no wonder the Germans call
the Netherlands: the promised land of the north...
the only aspect of prostition that's illegal in
britain is... keeping prostitute employees...
keeping a brothel...
self-employed hookers anon.
but would i even look at that: feminism limp dick
excuse waiting to happen with an english woman?
continental tastes... she says she's romanian:
but she's really bulgarian...
better still: the money...
a clarity of transaction... still no hannibal lecter
cock-guard of: look... but don't touch
of a striptease...
yes... that one striptease bar in Athens
i went to with a bunch of Algerians...
that still didn't stop me from touching
and piss my trousers with excitement after i was
escorted to a cash mashine by a bouncer...
broke... i never visited to Athens...
drunk's sat-nav... managed to walk from
one obscure part of Athens... to another obscure part
of Athens were i was sleeping...

esp. now... rape accusations... me and you too...
when will a prostitute ever accuse a man
of raping her? when... she has the common decency
to enzyme her vagina being fed cock
by pretending it's sunny and she's on a beach
and she's creaming herself up with body lotion?
is raping a prostitute more akin to:
doing it with an actual knife ergo it's not rape
it's murder or... not paying her?
i've fucked one dry cunt once...
in a cocoon under the sheets: south africaan
white girl SHAME sex on the first date...
not fun... sex that felt like a circumcision...
but when a prostitute... oils up?
i'm not expecting her to be naturally aroused...
like i'm not expecting a kamikaze viagara hard-on
when in need to salute a fucking officer:
let alone a general!

after all... this has to be the new wave of "homosexuality"...
if a heterosexual man... can't write about
prostitution... unlike a Marcel Schwob...
guilt ridden and what not...
when he can't write a: braille reading of a butcher's 15 minutes
of filleting...
hell... the homosexuals had their worded tango
with their sexual deviances...
i hope i can have mine...
no one was hurt in the process...
no latex gimp suits were used...
no one used a dildo to extract a 3rd tongue from
my anus... and i didn't play any sex theatre roles
of elevation of foreplay: that viagara substitute...
rare, carnal... and most importantly...
obedient to the rule of economy...
that 110 quid? wouldn't go anywhere...
if it were in my pocket... beside some scottish
whiskey brewer...

fucking smoochies... just because i forgot to trim
my pubic hair...
thank god i allowed my beard to grow:
it's like one hand managed to fiddle with an orchestra's
worth of violins...
and that's how two bodies should be:
if such two bodies are to enterain a siamese
eternity... the sort of curiosity given to demons
when they are also given gender-differential egos
and no reproductive organs...
oh i'm pretty sure there's a phallus-ego
and a vagina-ego in a demon body, "somewhere"...
this endless curiosity glue...
which is not bound to "foundation": akin to:
posterity... legion... retirement plans of 57 year
old French train operators...
children...
oh i can entertain an eternity with 72 virgins...
but that... that actually involves me: not fucking them...
otherwise... what'a a lonely girl to do?
72 stuffed teddy-bears?

at no point is there a notion of fucking involved...
i can erase the idea of being in possession
of a phallus... when i can be given the sort of freedoms
this tongue loves to entertain;
such as now.