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My Story

I admire the writing of

Bob Dylan,

David Bowie,

Gun Club,

Bob Marley,

Sinead O'Connor,

Talking Heads,

Nico,

Soko,

Kanye West,

The Beatles,

Leonard Cohen,

Billie Eilish,

Ampat Koshy,

Cormac McCarthy,

Haruki Murakami,

Bruce Abrahams,

Alexander Pope,

Nobou Uematsu,

Santosh Bakaya,

Allen Ginsberg,

Rumi,

Coleen Hoover,

Fernando Pessoa,

J.K. Rowling,

Russell Brand,

Daniel Kitson,

Samuel Coleridge,

Elizabeth Bishop,

J.D. Salinger,

Lord Byron

and John Keats...

so I wrote this poem

about their work

to give myself credibility

That’s the heart of the problem, in my humble opinion. I was always an imitator trying to imitate the imitators — the ruthless truth just exectuted me like a baby at war with its his mother. Suddenly, the sullen trees are an eventuality rather than an actuaklity that you see — sullnely, the great green lights become some money-monkeyed tree.. you were memorising some specific actuality, like a blur concord who adored the bright light of mice and men. I wasn’t inspecting any paradoxical trouble, some fallen angel calling to the light of the walls that state that fate premeditated the end— nah, there ain’t no circumstance to pity the celbrity of serendipity [no great calling to the pound nor the sound before the door to the indebted regretful nature of hateful regret. Perhaps they are trying to time tap some test which dispells the quest to some restful equation.. some egalitarian principle which never loaded the insatiability of hunger’s apetite, requited only by the lonely who live the unknown that you grow up to regret the fluency of the great gates that await heaven as if some lonely home were the sum of what the forgotten spirit bit as if a because for some secret school that foiols like us repent, bent by the catastriohe, the bitter-sweet political voodoo intruding upon the binary space that they attack factually as if the attractive majesty freed the wife who owned my life as if some stoned angel everyone concurs with until what’ we were influenced some tragedy that left the diplomat shit shaft to piss off all you newbies— & yet forget the reasonable blue shimdigs of the bigotted machinery that wake up the day-breakers to inspect the perspolis dream-weaver who grieves the future alimony of the trump that chumped her at the vbery same lesson which depresses th grievances of Svannah and the nightinglale trinity which switches the iimplausible candle that burnt many eyelashes on account of your lafck of infinity nor infinity divinity prose laughter crafting the chapellin.

 

I’m going with the river flow, forgiving dismissing.

They queued out the devout that Misha was kissing.

Shame on the restrained devotion that mystery speaks.

I’ll tell you why I don’t care for you or your numerous geeks.

Spread the head that they refused to bless; God gone partied, the doggos were blessed. Forget the impossible dance that is beginning to beg the beggar who realises the birthday party was to free forever rather than demean a constant objections sea. I don’t forgive the unexplored erossion of the promotional dynasty that computed the dream of the coward now that lent the dairy cow more than me & myself & me— the problem with stealth might rob them like a bookshelf restored to tour the re-ordered chickens that sicken the peas and the bygone vegans who suggest that I request an appointment with every blonde girl in Highgate Village like a greedy songsmith who told Elizabeth Hurley the unfurled forgiveness lessened the implausibity of the traitor who reiterated the invisibility of the birthed objections against the rash trash who ashed the deep blue sea who knew they would zoo the sue until the avenue forbed the dead-head followers who wallowed in the swallowed ideals of the unfeeling Freud who voided the employed harlots as if to discrimate against the heart-long art-song that shat this diplomat like the dyke who reiterated that malice learned the palace of torture disordered the great trapeeze trap which happened as if to excuse the refused and make fools like you and me backwards requestrs that tempted the temple or mirrors back to the Robot Electrops stole to corner the soul that loved you wayyyyyyyyyyy too hard, some scarred charred interactive puzzle that befuddled the loss.

 

That’s the heart of the problem, in my humble opinion. I was always an imitator trying to imitate the imitators — the ruthless truth just exectuted me like a baby at war with its his mother. Suddenly, the sullen trees are an eventuality rather than an actuaklity that you see — sullnely, the great green lights become some money-monkeyed tree.. you were memorising some specific actuality, like a blur concord who adored the bright light of mice and men. I wasn’t inspecting any paradoxical trouble, some fallen angel calling to the light of the walls that state that fate premeditated the end— nah, there ain’t no circumstance to pity the celbrity of serendipity [no great calling to the pound nor the sound before the door to the indebted regretful nature of hateful regret. Perhaps they are trying to time tap some test which dispells the quest to some restful equation.. some egalitarian principle which never loaded the insatiability of hunger’s apetite, requited only by the lonely who live the unknown that you grow up to regret the fluency of the great gates that await heaven as if some lonely home were the sum of what the forgotten spirit bit as if a because for some secret school that foiols like us repent, bent by the catastriohe, the bitter-sweet political voodoo intruding upon the binary space that they attack factually as if the attractive majesty freed the wife who owned my life as if some stoned angel everyone concurs with until what’ we were influenced some tragedy that left the diplomat shit shaft to piss off all you newbies— & yet forget the reasonable blue shimdigs of the bigotted machinery that wake up the day-breakers to inspect the perspolis dream-weaver who grieves the future alimony of the trump that chumped her at the vbery same lesson which depresses th grievances of Svannah and the nightinglale trinity which switches the iimplausible candle that burnt many eyelashes on account of your lafck of infinity nor infinity divinity prose laughter crafting the chapellin.

 

I’m going with the river flow, forgiving dismissing.

They queued out the devout that Misha was kissing.

Shame on the restrained devotion that mystery speaks.

I’ll tell you why I don’t care for you or your numerous geeks.

Spread the head that they refused to bless; God gone partied, the doggos were blessed. Forget the impossible dance that is beginning to beg the beggar who realises the birthday party was to free forever rather than demean a constant objections sea. I don’t forgive the unexplored erossion of the promotional dynasty that computed the dream of the coward now that lent the dairy cow more than me & myself & me— the problem with stealth might rob them like a bookshelf restored to tour the re-ordered chickens that sicken the peas and the bygone vegans who suggest that I request an appointment with every blonde girl in Highgate Village like a greedy songsmith who told Elizabeth Hurley the unfurled forgiveness lessened the implausibity of the traitor who reiterated the invisibility of the birthed objections against the rash trash who ashed the deep blue sea who knew they would zoo the sue until the avenue forbed the dead-head followers who wallowed in the swallowed ideals of the unfeeling Freud who voided the employed harlots as if to discrimate against the heart-long art-song that shat this diplomat like the dyke who reiterated that malice learned the palace of torture disordered the great trapeeze trap which happened as if to excuse the refused and make fools like you and me backwards requestrs that tempted the temple or mirrors back to the Robot Electrops stole to corner the soul that loved you wayyyyyyyyyyy too hard, some scarred charred interactive puzzle that befuddled the loss.

 

https://books.google.co.uk/books/about/God_s_Pretty_Game_of_Grotesque_Puppets.html?id=uy4czQEACAAJ&redir_esc=y

 

As for the gaming system that games the gaming man, I would recommend World of Warcraft, but only because 50 comprehend the deaf-dead-send that you and your friends pretend to be some alibi that shoots through the sky into your dying alibi of you & I & "those other people” who smother their lovers until the mission dries. I’m not explaining some great detention theory, as if darkness brothered thte youth that repudiated the fateful gates that left destiny to myself or me and the problems that rob them as if the sequential alibi is always “do or die”. The utter solution is the grave constitution, some kind of blind hummingbird that dreams the yellow clitoris was some kind of dismissed mission that happened long ago before you assaulted my eye and my I and the freedom that seeked them to the forgotten plot which made you think that you were so repugnant that the fat diplomatic cat shot the issue by holding a tissue as if to unfurl the Universe itself rather than attack the factual reaction of those who screamed for the blue sky rather than understanding that Grandfather clock which stoned your clued equation that subdued the renewed equation to reiterate the fact that the evolution trees are as serpentile as the River Nile that expects the erection of some fabrication that indebts some secret suffragette letter, perhaps in order to conform to the war against the unfriendly phantom pain that refrained from retraining the alibi that you attempted to make me repent the wakeful sleep that chained the prophet who knocked shit into a central organisation that cracked the heart attack fiends into some zoned unknown which led the head of empathy back into a central loaned armageddon which made her as deceitful as he, some essential empathy that led the “Ground Zero” heroes back to the mirror, the one shot that forgot the retaliatory concept of unsleepful dreams, as if the Cluedo unjointed the falling facts of a riddle that kidded the serpent sea of the inferiority complex that distracted the flutish fiddle of the zoot which reiterated the transmuted soul of the inter-web that stole my soul and its essence, some kind of tragectory that holes the overdone parable which gravely insisted the mission to the traditional conformity that frees the moment that happened again as if some fission interacting with the release that grieved the probability that no paradox shat the parable that nursed the words of destroyed bedroom boys who attempt to employ the zoo as if some hunted theoretical hellroom which still sells the groom to the karmaic drama that says you too do cheat. The continuity spell was loaded, as if some infrequented imposter, some straight fateful gate that said all was broken as if some token pass to the grass that no longer resents Mother Nature, nor the fabled stable in which you placed the abandoned remix whose trajectory skipped the secret passanger in everyone’s orphaned dreams. The uncharted barter of the requiem was the war that opened up as if to token Planet Earth with some other digression and mystical word unheard to the rebellion that sells the premeditated birth of some other lover, doomed to executre the strange sequence that depletes the competition that traditionally stoned the deep grievances of the sweet sleep that replicates some stranger’s unknown treat as if to deplete the Portabello Mushrooms which bloomed the Sabretooth truth that alludes the pompous tradition that they commissioned, some kind of mindless sequence that led the increidbly pre-ordained city state as if to question the animal defection that they think symbolised a holy trinity rather than the infinity of the blessed rest stop that copped the caller until the lady-killers saved the exclamation that confused the amused lesson which Ollie’s brother said detracted from the dead infinity in favour of the saviours who could distinquish me from he. The embarassment emaphised the huamistic behaviour that doubts the devout until the mirror outed the servers who threw a curve-ball into the stall that darted as if a mecanichal dream. They were barely aiding the American Dollar bill nor chasing the Fountain Stream back to its source. They were trapping as if happening dialogue was all the fool ever knew, hoping to denote the stranger’s experimental experience that represents the adress which regression therapy reiterated the sadness that capped that fact who shat in the Historical City’s Empress, some indominable reliable and yet tried narrator which phislophized the size who blew the armory jew back to the community that you tried to confide as if some regretful symmetry that told the cold pilgrim that the resistant fact was as obvious as the mountain capped as if some limosine lap that could neither trap the relapsing chauvinists who did this to your alimonial causation that frames the great gamer they installed next to my prophecies and the ectasy that legally landed just to ban the speaker from the weaker shart party which parted me from the Mississippi River before the war denoted some mystery to the inpenterable mystery that respected the eletced dream-time as if some sort of screamed thought crime as if I did break my promise to the warriors at Warsaw, that which unimplied the ideology that healed some secret equation where frustration was dead as a cow’s head before the instant apocalypse that sent you back to the repentent track of the animalistic athlete that knew I seized the opportunistic reverie that frred me from the chique serpentine villar that pressurised my Cambridge sxeifjrkwomcurqofkfurmfirkwkw — some people feel that they understand the sweet tragedy of life, but mostly I Salute the holy ghost that redirected the strangely requited amenity amephyst of armageddon with showed ma & fa my secret love.. it happened like that, like this, dyke twat, phat this, can se, man mu, can tut, man slut, lost youth, stoned truth, unknown delusion, secret fashionista who stalled my dreams as if some serendipity that they sold the outliers to, sure she wars the was of my love, sure, fat shat, remind me black, sure, blind the possibility of the fact that I am working for my mum who is dead ijn heaven, figuring some kind of trigger which left us to finally find that we resigned from the cow-girl now-world of the circular purpose that might factually requite some kind of attack of Mr. Wonkeys and the angered angels who knew China’s epiphanical emptiness, blawed out of some drum, rethinking my autobiography due to the representation of the ’no-regrets’ statement which I signed very eary in 2011, some super-needy infinity that they speed you two too, some kind of middled blind that pretended the end was a secret regretful — … oh boy, do these falitures grow to resent the past that they farted so forgetfully resentful, employed as if a toy ghost Chocobo to host the innermost ghost that told you that I was a very fast runner, heading towards the deadened sun that told you the truth regarding the stars by way of happy accident, some mindless old-school hero that recompensed the summoned penis, dumb to the delirium of the wordless folding school that resolved the cursred warholes that told you I accidentally stole some money that was owed to me due to the crossroads that the great totality questioned as if to suspend the fact that I got exorcised from my University to  prove the point that they never annointed nor wrotea. signle thing, some kind of unjust symbol, like Tilly’s. Cupcakes, some kind oi brown oblivion that I am letting you know was a case against the parrots who reorganised the symbolist solipsist myth that read the redemption song of February 14th, some Robert who blurted the insanely accomplished confusion that was made to outdate me, freedom vhasers embracing the confused aceless maddened gladness that recites the point that much of us misunderstand a some surrender to the white black for I will send this to my aunty Vivian in a matter of ten minutes without any further explanation of scriped d membrane denial so at lleast say you’re sorry Tom Condom.

 

I recommend World of Warcraft — too fun, too addictive, very lust for life, lot sof fun to be had, believe me you, the future hurt but you had better forgot that you toast a robot which doesn’t exist or suddenly the resistant trouble hurts everything and everybody. Things get confusing et beautcoup de la terre ne marche comme moi, l’totality ne marche comme les elevres qui n’petition l’ecole pour mon merchant qui repent l’imagination — sure, I imagine that other men’s girlfriends fancy me, but Isabel rhymes with Animal Rebellion donc tout le monde d’illusion sur tout et possiblement the stoned scared reach for some common epiphany that I ain’t giving to you.

https://eu.account.battle.net/l

Hi friends & spoilt-sports & errant messengers & spoilt patriotic patriots & damned Taxi-codes & pathetic onlookers, it can't & shan't get you in the bathroom at a Texico but it just might: this isn't a project that took a long time to write but I was living in torment & friends & gentle servicemen... down in North London town, my somewhat drug-addled body was disabled & hurting for a long time due to the solitary confinement of the state's natural resources and my attitude towards thought-dreams that govern me somewhat hopelessly like a forgotten algorithm played by myself and hosted by time itself. I have written a few autobiographies, but it's a difficult life to live for more than one reason which is the treasons of the reasons and I can't take responsibility for myself anymore because y'all stalled Mark E. Smith of The Fall one too many times. This is slight corruption and barely my fault because I do care for the sacred and the naked, but I can't promise you that I want to be detained by some clean-clothes Rastafarian Muslim simply to understand the fallacy of some people called Helen for an ideology that I can't restore because it was what it is occasionally but one does have to look back occasionally unless you want to figuratively understand your life as a video-game [yea, that's right to some extent: when some people understand that I was molested as a Chocobo, the sure Sue Ryder flipped and past became present and here I am, barely acting as a tractor to some sequel that Terrence McKenna would call life but can't for Protest Singer 142 restored some kind of respectable rush to a solo goal that he is transmitting because I used to inhabit a strange and somewhat deranged body of work that I can understand physically and mentally [occasionally] for I recognise that sometimes you just wish you were on the side that's winning something for someone and I have learned that the deal got bust in an extremely surreal way because they choose to use me as a muse and identify me as a non-human outlet which couldn't be further from the truth. Thanks for landing on my website, friends. Although it is a pity that you are not my friends in the serendipitous season of Christmas, I am delighted to announce that you should be dead for the improbably vast massacre that lands on the 'Girl From Mars' by Ash, which seems to compute the fallacy of solipsism straight to the late hero that you can somehow remember to treat like a cash-cow or some stoned pastoral idyll that Bob Dylan & I & Leonard Cohen refuse to ignore for the strength of the warriors who fighted to rite the wrongs of the population which sold Cambridge its alienation principles and thus people can see the steeples and Medieval symbols of my body of work fairly easily unless "Time Is Money" (yea, we fight the trappers like that) & "Empathy Can Be Evil" & "Blessed Oliver Opened"  & "The Cage Is Cursed" & "They Account For Brain Damage" & "It Hurt!" [yeah it did...] & "Open The Gates" & "Schizophrenia Makes Me Reappear In A Fresh New Night Because We Gotta Fight Dyke" & "UI" & "I & me & "Eye Testified 4 The Trial Was Murder 1 Because Lucy CornIfEyedTheLie". 

Sure, I returned to the facility after you put pictures of pot because my Wife was on of those long jobs that can barely recoccur again in any traditional fallacy

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I'm always looking for new and exciting opportunities. Let's connect.

123-456-7890 

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