roar the rockstar death age

my claws are pathetically weak.
i've resigned to the fact
i will never be able
to use in public
with confidence
and success.
i therefore
for sure
am not to be useful.

not trying to reach
or clasp
or grip
or grasp
or feel
or wave
or poke
or give
a middle finger up
to funny friends
or annoying people i don't know.

my claw got RSI and i was told he had to die.
they chopped him off
from the tip of the bone
and exposing the nerves to the air
i have now a stump
for a hand
a stump
for a heart
sharp pain in my
fang

no i'm not crying
there's some rubbish in my eye
without a hand or claw or pokey
i cannot pry it out and wipe it dry.

i curl up in a ball and swim in my eye water
and pretend i'm somewhere hotter
where the loss of moisture leads to death.

but alas i want to be here.
even if clawless
even if empty handed
or not-handed-at-all.

pass me a peach.
straight in my mouth.
papaya is the ancient fruit
but i am modern now
no claw. no claw. no claw.

so retro

i wanted a faraway dream of tacky shit and tidy cheese and cutesy ditzy polka dot cups hanging from hooks made of recently-saved-from-environmental-disaster antelopes' gratefulness tears. i craved to be part of this wave of what seemed like happy people, all neatly packed in their adorable rounded-corner boxes, commenting freely with spot-on jokes on items on the list of shared interests. they felt elegant, styled and easy.

i thought this would nurse my apparent lack of know-how in being and thinking. i thought it would ensure i am loved. pretty good as self-preservation goes, despite actions required of me going against the grain of want to be expressive freely and being un-contained in posture and mind frame.

well, obviously this hadn't worked or i hadn't performed correctly. i guess it was the snorting when laughing or once farting when fallen asleep on the sofa in the shared living room. i was replaced. removed. swept to the side while a new bride took my place. a squeaky girl, all ready with sparkles and smiles, whilst my greasy clothed body still in extended arms hug position, begins to feel the pain of emptiness.

now, i am not a victim out of choice, but i am a victim out of need. how else would i dare to see eye to eye with myself in the mirror again otherwise? i did what i had to. i tied the loose ends. i cleaned up my act. i wore black eyeliner. i got allopecia treatment. i fed myself with my hands, took my bones to the therapist, dragged my flesh to the city, plonked the weight on the garden chair, smiled and smelled and followed the scents to the one fine point i saw still amongst the swirls of fuzzy background and drunken traffic. a fine point so elegant and well-defined i stopped breathing and my heart promised to never beat again if i lost.

but this time it's been different. the willing pride has flinched and now doesn't care much for pleasantries. it's true you can't. it's true i may not be right. it's true. it's all true. but how else can i stand up when all i can clearly see is your point? and how else to convince the self that being what it is was not a disaster? that holding your hand was not out of need but out of desire?

and what more can i say to show i'm not wasting time, i'm not useless, i'm not stupid, i'm not selfish, i'm not careless, i'm not trying to irritate and i really do want everyone to be happy? meanings of words and waves of bland imagery projections on stained sheets skew perception occasionally. but unless we see how balance is happiness, we will have died without living. you will have died and i will dissolve into nothing.

not a normal

A rebalancing act or decidedly taking part in participatory group activities, like a healthy little child, like a good sport, like one of the crew, good girl pat pat pat on the head et cetera.

I bit my own hand first, then compared till i had no more comparisons to draw. i morphed into the opposite of what i had hid under. i morphed into my anti-protector. a sophisticated enemy masterful of all guns and trades. capable of tearing you apart completely just with one swift vibration of the tongue. one strong muscle that looks and feels like a slug. sheltering from anything dry and poignant. slipping around in the aimless wet concrete mess, risking imprinting your sole onto its face to show it's oh so tough and macho. macho my ass.

So anyway furthermore moreover, is this an instruction for any marauder around, to loot savagely any trace of stability or seriousness or fatness in my bones? because it does feel that way goddammit and afterwards i'll be left with no nothing or no key or wings or antennae or anything whatsoever. so what's this deal then? win win what? loose self and heart? is he worth it? is he worth it? is he worth it?

A flexible multifaceted approach in admitting defeat and throwing the towel in that was required, inevitably could not be offered. not because of resistance but because of inability to be one-dimensional.

love and hate. both the same.

After the initial (or more appropriately the previous stable state) was revisited she clasped a tiny edge of Hope at the end of the visit and dutifully believed there was a way to prop the doors open to go freely between states as she wishes. She applied for it. Signed both the copies. Initials of the initial. reciprocal oscillation. Such an acrid flavour on the back of the tongue. Gagging again. tears without eyes. hands flopping empty and useless and without purpose left and right of the hips, not holding on to anything as nothing is there for them to hold on to and they hate each other and they would never agree on whose thumb is to be on top anyway. childish and facetious and totally non-serious. this meant that Hope had failed to ignite any passions or other in her. Her defeated existence reminding of a concrete structure- it allows the movements of winds but their effect is only for others to see or feel. her concrete heart hasn't even got a clue anything is different. shrivelling up every second. looking after itself with nurture and care and pity.

resigning was not the next logical step. it was the first never taken. the one undoing the mistake. she undid the error and signed off and repetitively checked it was all in the right order. but the something in her head had spoken. and she knew nothing could ever be saved. she was meant to question. she was meant to question. she was meant to question. and the answer to find impossible to bear.

nobody is. nobody for her. only her own is comparable.
she finally processed the calculations. with very little joy, announcing this to a few other heads she spots around her in the infinity of a surrounding. 'nothing is the same. everything is the same. nothing and everything are different empty cases of the same hologram.' she mumbles noticing her feet could do with a wash.

exhale

i have.

eternally.

pulsated and done.

She would.

willingly.

pulsated and done.

I shooed.

hand waving.

whimsy and dry.

She showed.

heuristics wavering.

whimsy and dry. 

Bitter and Silent.

Aggressively Mellow.

Possessively Distant.

Upsettingly Clean.

She wiped all the pictures

and all they could mean.

my hair was pulled out

to reveal my bald head.

my kindred spirit ruled out

as the worst guidance ever.

the finger tips all burnt off

demanding a waver.

left in the dark

she examines the get out.

given bitterness to hope

she understands there's no option

to climb is to fall

and to walk is to panic

in a line we're all standing 

like a queue, all thematic.

instantly we are and aren't

instantly she is and cannot be

instantly she outshines and outscreetches and outshakes and outreaches and outbreaksup her face and outdamages tendons and outdreams of the end and outdoes you. she's better.

all moi (In Summary Part 2)

it wasn't you. it was all me.
i substituted everything problematic with my positivity for you.
it's never been you.
it's always been me.
plagued with unshiftable weight hats forever.
i tried to take them off but to be honest i don't quite know how big they are.
i asked you to tell me.
you got under them and looked at me with playfulness.
i asked you to tell me how big they are.
you kissed my forehead with certainty
i asked you to describe them to me.
you shook hands with me and locked your fingers around mine.
but i asked you how they are.
not to share them.
they are all mine.
not yours to carry.
really not yours to carry.
i'm not yours to carry.
i'm only yours to look at.
yours to believe in.
yours to remain.
my disorders.
all poured into a mould
that went on to mould my energy for you.
i used you.
carelessly and greedily.
but you kissed me on the cheek.
sturdily and with disappointment.
and then i caught your shadow with the corner of my eye.
and didn't understand.
you didn't understand.

{this is the fly's poem to the light, written in blue ink a year later.continued from 'In Summary'}
it goes with this song:

where

are you?

where?

did the rounds a million times just checking everywhere.

where

are you?

where?

looked in every crevice-cryptic-cleverclogs joke we've shared.

and didn't find you.

ah well. guess one of us has to stay put while the other is looking. you've obviously had that grand idea again and are stood in the farthest new place not looking at people, waiting for me to retrieve you.

ah well. you'll be waiting for a while. guess it was my turn someone found me for once. found me and said it. 'i found you'. and their toes really curled with comfort and their smile widened with the seriousness of what makes you guffaw and tears your heart out simultaneously and whilst undoing your popping button top they laugh at what's beneath it and profess salvation of their soul and inability to live outside your aura.

it's my turn now. but i think there is no queue and i'm feeling a little too 'on sale' parading around with my eggs all in this humongous basket made out of doilies, hearts and yellowing pages of romance novels scary ladies read on the beach whilst smoking long cigarettes. i should have listened to the academics amongst us warning me of expressing more than you can receive. but i honestly thought i could take it. honest to god. cross my heart.

the academics warned me against smoking too. and did i listen? boy did i listen. i listened alright. but was hoping i was cheesier than them with more flair for attracting finders with more flair for becoming a keeper.
with more pizazz to convince people to see me like i see them. to burn the rose-tinted 70s hippy bullshit and permanently install disney eyes that widely love wherever they cast their glow at. whispering with cartoon birdlike-properties 'and you and you and you' as they go along. kissing as frequently as they blink.

the academics warned me life wasn't fair and that enjoying your work is crucial to existence. they insisted you have to make your work fun for you. i insisted you have to find a work that is fun for you. that's where we differ, i thought. that and their resistance to seeing how painted tips can genuinely act as an anti-convulsive anti-depressant anti-politicalhell anti-classistbullying anti-beingthelastonetobeacceptedasfiteveranywhere. funny old thoughts they had. you paint your nail, you are immediately anti-intellectual, anti-legal, you might as well be smoking. drugs. and practising. witch. oh whatever. nobody goes down that route if they have support, surely. nobody is curious enough to do something as stupid as smoke or drink or swear, right?

i paint my nails weekly. it is my rescue. you can tell i need it to survive because when you see me with plain, neat & tidy nails i am distracted, too neat and avoidant, my emotional temperature incommunicable, it is like a brick has sat next to the sofa with you and is nodding for you to pour the tea and give it lactofree milk. (you are delusional though if you see an actual brick nod at you. or are possibly tripping on some off ryvitas, mate) Anyway, now you know i've painted my nails, so when you find me you can be sure it is really me.

the academics don't know jack, i suspected. it turns out they did. and are more advanced than i credited them as initially. oh what i'd give to go back and apologise for the errors and embarrassment. oh what i'd give to find words suitable and strong enough to convey to them my love and respect the way they will perceive as 'ok' and won't guilt them into feeling anything other than happiness. basically they were more advanced than me, and now i've reached and possibly exceeded them, with going to university, and being alive and all.

i digress. i am here with my nails and love for academia. i am here with love you can understand. fucking find me already, i'm always here, and i'm always ready. i'm practically your ideal everything and i feed on being smiled at. promise. i don't even need food. ok maybe i do, but you get it. i mean other food. food for thought. food for your soul. good food. food that's good for you. i can feed on you. i do this thing where i suck out all your bad energy and you are left light-headed and happy and you don't even know why. at first i approach the topic with intense hardcore heavy sadness and within seconds you're crying from laughter and you have none left in you at all. it's my trick. for as long as you're near me i make it all go away. and i don't need food. i need you.
whoever you are.
wherever you went.

where?

are you?

where?

or how?

what a shock

peeling top layer off the bottom

with a sharp and instant dedication

unusual for this time in the morning

unusual sleepy extrication.

liturgy interrupted with regret

by self-preserving disrespect

most conspicuous form of treason

most pathetic. without reason.

sucking this thumb harder than an infant. 

concentrating on breaking my teeth

concentrated heat healing my hatred

curing the cramps, crumbling the crust, crying at last

(a)maZochist

if you're ungrateful i hate you 
if you're a traitor i made you 
you seem astonished, i'm on it
i'll shine and i'll polish your astounding addiction to pain 
so it grates on my 
leftover, bagged up heart 
once again. 

same temperature

sitting on the nearly dried street of a london suburb. sitting down on the ground and stretching one leg, bending the other to show off the thinness of thigh and with it the evident need to be thought of as delicate. elegant. to encourage desire to touch her.  her back not touching the wall behind due to miscalculation of distance when first sat down. she is too knotted up to move. she doesn't want to admit error or come across as all over the place. her hands are already doing more than enough talking, rubbing under the eyes the nonexistent itch, wiping the nonexistent excess oil. her skin is perfect. she is mimicking other people's uncomfortable perfectings of their hair and face so she appears animated, so she doesn't intimidate with her physical comfort in discomfort. she realises it is the same summer smell. the same summer temperature. the same shadowy londony experience of musty tree-grass-tarmac heat and gentle breeze. jagermeister and diet coke. it's a tradition. she is so hardcore. she is so rebellious. she is so emotional. she doesn't care but she really does. just right. perfectly perfect. she laughs and looks in the eye. and then away. she is playing with you. she is calling you. she is screaming. jagermeister stupefaction. all a front to explain why she's resting her knee on yours. why she's showing off her skinny arms and careless attitude. she attacks you with semi-insulting semi-inviting laser stare. you close your eyes and squint in the sun. you flick your curl in your finger and then spill a little drink on your jeans. you look adorable. you look exactly as panicked as her. you are so scared and so excited. you are so indifferent. could just pat her head goodbye and not feel a single thread of regret. casual. so bloody casual.

ran out excuses and filler filled with scripted awkwardness. you are not drunk from the jagermeister. you are drunk from the kiss. you are drunk from the realisation you have what you needed in your arms. you have it right there. you might lose it if you are not careful. but for the moment it's right there. no matter how many deep breaths and post party shakes you have, it is not going to disappear. you can just lift your hand and touch it. please lift your hand and touch it.

practising

my elbows fill up with cold liquid. it enters quickly from my middle fingers and runs up sharply to the elbow bone. i channel.
i suppose everyone gets this and it's not just another of my idiosyncrasies uniformally attributed to my foreignness or my whimsical stature. but just occasionally i get sidetracked into thinking i know it is only me. when i walk past a place and i know there is something there 'we' cannot see. when two ladies, looking the part, pity my pathetic wallowing stare of bus-travelling and unnecessary pain and nod to me. it is like hearing something or seeing it. a sense that i really can't define or manipulate. and the other people i detect. i know they know. they know i know. we're basically all sat there not thinking this but pretty much communicating in invisible nods and handshakes.
i am aware of the seriousness of phrasing something so delicate and easily considered as madness or overzealous hope for magical properties. i am not clear of my intentions.
but i am not lying.
seriously. i channel. i pick up. i respect the order of the flow. i can see the actual flow of everything.
and i have no power within it. i am only there to observe and let it rush through me.
i don't want any involvement. i am not meant to change anything. i do not require participation further to this. would you request the clouds move towards one direction over an other just because you could see them? no. proof is irrelevant. but nothing magical is.
rituals are of personal importance anyway. you really don't need to do them if you can concentrate your brain on the one specific request or claim or message. and i rarely do. and it always fucks me up. it's not a fear of repercussions, but rather an unwilling trade-off for nothing. no pain no fucking gain. but i don't need any gain, as you don't. whatever. this is so general i doubt it is meaningful or relevant.
i remember the greet to a soldier. i remember upsetting someone with my heavily distraught emotions in their front living room. i remember the welcome to decisiveness.and angst. the rituals that followed pain. the pain that followed rituals. and now, as tried and tested i can fully disclose and rip open my little sachet of wisdom powder and sprinkle it over your eye. hilariously, the one you don't know you have.
and anyway, if you need something, you may get it. it's a matter of approaching it right. it has to be a requirement and not a luxury. it has to be fair. it has to flow to you the way you flow to it. it is purely a coordinated coincidence.
be aware of the balance.
respect as you wish to be respected.
anyway, whatever, this advice might be irrelevant. but nothing magical is.

no/YES

She disagrees. He watches the dissonance develop behind her eyes. She really does not. He really does. She really cannot. He really must. She doesn't know why. He has never been more certain. She cannot focus on anything. He has it all planned out in a 5-tier diagram. She's forgotten her diaphragm. He is totally in for free fun loving diving. She's a dry creature of the air. He cannot argue. She cannot agree. He is so annoying. She thinks he is all too sweet. He cannot betray her. She cannot believe. He has never met her. She's been with him all along. He cannot think complex. She cannot live straight. He cannot be honest. She cannot be dead.

to my secret

i am persistent and i will hold your hand beyond the acceptable after death.
i am persistent because you showed me i am by guiding my hand into yours and asking me not to let go.
i am persistent because it is the only way i know how to be and the only way i think is right to be.
goodbye

group singing

drop.
drop it.
drop your habit/ drop the jokes, the accusations/
false crap/false expectations/cracking up with shock and embarrassment/ falsified by you not being honest.
i said drop this straight into the cracked bin filled with rubbish and ridiculous explanations nobody asked for.
drop it like it's yesteday's dinner's carcass eaten by the foxes/wipe your arse and swipe your lip and wash your hands in between.
crack- an egg into the pan of ideology. your baby, safely kept in these earthquake hands, riddled with parkinsons and i won't-
drop it. i promise i'm working my hardest but forgetfulness goes with the age and forgetting your apology or  lack of thereof is something i am prone to, in between my cracking sessions of being hilarious for and audience to/ my own sole royal jester. I will hit the wall of repetition quickly and drop the pace to a minimum, whilst the freshly lacquered expectations surface seems to be cracking from the antilogy between my personalities.
I drop my mug of tea and apologise, quickly. To whom?
Something I learnt about us and never revealed to talk about, once noticed how the cracks in our relations were growing deeper and worried it would be our catalyst if i dropped the self-accusatory bomb.
I denied to myself any involvement with risks and testing out hypotheses and the like.
I denied you the joy of clapping your hands to the jovial music, or cracking a whip up an alpine bucolic landscape.
Dropped it with my fair hands. the shakey ones that didn't drop your baby a few lines ago. I dug a little puddle into the damp soil and carefully placed my secret stash of crack and tat and covered with a few hasty kicked-in bits of more mud.
The rain revealed my appalling craftsmanship. Perhaps intentionally, to reveal i am a two-faced hypocrite.
I cracked up. As if that was a secret from you in the first place. We both knew what we signed up for. We cliched our arses off in those first few overnight chats, mildly being electrocuted by bad computer wiring and with sore eyes and cracked yellowing lips from the badly rolled fags, whilst right hand was still insisting on spelling 'the' as 'teh'.
Gleeful and courteous and courting with the subtlety of ten thousand bagpipe students attempting to twinkle your star, for the very first time. With that came the exchange of the facts. In the box. The one with the embarrassing trivia and finger pointing and shut-the-fuck-ups and rosy cheeks and crossed eyes.
So what's the scoop. Tell me what's the truth.
Drop. Drop it.
Double Drop it to ascertain immediate effect.
Drop the stilleto so it acts like a knife. and finish this.

multitude

in too many different ways it is happening.
they all surround me tightly with certain, long-limbed steps and within a few moments my aura is touching every one of them. tightly packed in the middle of their volition, being passively pushed towards the centre of me. being passively pushed towards the centre of you.
i miss.
i miss like i'm innocent. i miss like i'm a victim. i miss like your face is visually more important to me than the light.
i miss helpless and pathetic. restless and dramatic. in chronic pain.
i don't know. i just don't know what to do to erase your ghost shadow from my awareness. i don't know what to do to want to erase your ghost shadow from my awareness. i don't know why i have to be so strict and self-loathing, to remove you. i don't understand why you'd choose this for me. and i still believe what i felt. i can't dispute this for convenience. i can't blindfoldedly deny the existence of a wall i'm repeatedly walking into on the claim of having no visual skills. i can't allow you to fuck up. nobody fucks up. not when they are remembered. not when they are ghosts.

and when i have sort of succeeded in pretending you have never existed, i naughtily prompt recall by paying attention to the black cardboard cut out in the centre of my eyes. i ride the wave of euphoria your existence provides. i ride it down to the industrial landfill landscape it expresses on. i drink from it what looks like an oil leak with bubbles of foam firmly stuck to its surface. it makes the tube in my neck close up. it makes me cough without coughing.

it's all closing in on me. and of course i'm in the middle. a multitude of arrows pointing towards me and a multitude of directions i wish i could move towards. a multitude of reasons not to do it. a multitude of ways i cannot do it.

on the forehead

(she thinks from under the bed)

for fuck's sake please stroke my head. please. my knees have dissolved into powder after a long time of bone rubbing against bone, from the many times i thought it was going to happen and prepared myself and propelled myself a little closer to your hand. like a rusted bio-degraded knee-spring, they have disengaged with me.

for fuck's sake, you've been taunting me for so long. i really can feel my hairline itch. you hand would be annoying but so necessary. you've been talking with your hands for ages and i've falsely expected them to touch me for all this time. can't you see how patient i've been for you?

for fuck's sake, you make contact with me for a split second and before i have proof it happened, before i can have one visual image of it having taken place, you withdraw deep into your hiding place, and pretend never to have left at all, so the others can point at me and say 'liar' and tell me off for not giving up on you.

for fuck's sake, either completely dissolve, like my bones and my self-respect, or make it official, to help me stay ok and not lose it. i am not sure i will make it either way, but this, at least, you owe me.

this plasticity

i'm raw. soft and red. the thin film of the top layer of skin has been carefully peeled off. i glisten. i am now one step closer to being nearer you. one less layer to separate the blood from the air. moist, hot pulsating flesh. all one surface. it's being cooled down by the breeze and my frantic picking of the scabs. i can't seem to know where it's been done and when i need to be more careful. i feel my eyes. their left-right movements, jerkily stabbing my eyelids with pain. or  energy. it is unclear to me what i can feel and it is of no importance at all, so i promise to myself i will ignore this. my lashes flicker, a separate material growing from within my eyelid skin. i feel the slither of liquid make its way across my cheek. it is running so slowly i have to bite my tongue not to move. it touches the top of my lip. i taste my blood and i remember. when did we agree this is not ok? when did we agree i cannot reveal my veins? i read in a magazine once that there are more than two types of people. i forget them all, but i remember one was the person who deals with life quietly. you don't want to state the obvious, you don't need to share your experience, you just need to get on with it and lock your lips with a key you destroy. i remember there is the person who puts on the show, expressing the suppressed, declaring the declared, repeating what we've all heard before and now don't even notice it's repeated once more. and then there is the person that collapses and withdraws and fights and kicks and hides and blames everything on everyone, knowing full well that it is only their fault and without their irregularity, their lives would be perfect and meaningless. i guess i fit in the third category. sorry. i know i can be embarrassing. i know i can take myself so seriously that it shocks and makes internal voices gasp and english manners look away, on the floor with politeness. but i also know i can be exhilarating and blindly optimistic, my hopefulness never haltered or contained in any situation. i am not simple. but i am predictable. consistent within the complexity. responsible within my wild accusatory rage. willing to see and begging to understand. locked inside this face, i'm ripping it off, to get out and touch you. air. (i want to feel you.)

the work

one of those work dreams.
i am last in the office. the lights go off. i don't go home. instead, i sleep on my desk. i wake up at 5 am and the cleaner decides not to come in, so the panic about having to hide/the Anna Frank girl that hides, working upstairs gets forgotten.
my boss & colleagues will be in soon. it's already 6 and 7 am. i am aware i will have to pretend i have been home and come back. i escape through opening and closing the door quickly to confuse anyone standing outside it. i walk down to a lab. i try to get coffee out of the clinical injectiony/chemical/scary vending machine. i get a fix. i jump across the road to an entire new country and it's 50% green grass and 50% concrete staircases.

the cat in the box

gentle caress, inside the silk-lined box. i am miniature and loved so much i accept this as it is.
soft movements so i don't wake up. they touch my fur and i can feel the waves of motion in my heart.
the concept of mortality and the distinction of physical boundaries have stopped being relevant to me since the incident. i am a new thing, new skin, new energy, crumpled up paper with drawn arrows on. i am pointing everywhere, beaming, having remembered i can be complete without effort, as i wish.

living for this second.
i wish for this to continue until i have forgotten how to speak and that is no longer needed anyway.

best of (another list another level)

-indoor protesting
-sunset
-families and ease of being around them
-morning coffee jokes
-walking past ruins on way to shops
-stray dogs, fat and chilled out
-cat cul-de-sac, cat land heaven
-event plannings when event is away and possibilities are still interesting
-ppl getting rid of dissertations and acing vivas
-realising i understand politics, being able to simplify &explain to younger ppl
-telemarketing brochures
-toasties with mortadella &gruyere
-Law & Order on TV & CSI with the lady
-YouTube
-holding hands with mum and dad and the knowing look with sister
-routine that becomes unnoticed and unstressful
-kisses on cheeks and waving hands up in the air

The End. happy The End everyone

poptart (the offender's perspective)

Amazing
four feet under the ground
and still as vibrant as yesterday

Little socks
rolled down on her ankles
and still so weathered
like a leather pipe

She slides off me
and falls in the chair
and smiles slightly
and plays with her hair

Still, like a shepherd
I guide her to me
she nods and she flops
and she spills all her tea

The drunker, the better
I've always believed
I feed them some poison
and then I retrieve

The sighs are all flowers
I'm putting in a box
Their weakness, my power.
I question my touch.

Amazing
her lashes are jewelled with drops
and still as happy as yesterday

Little twinkles
on her shaking wrists
and I find I'm no longer exposing my wit.