Sep 2016
my brain has a priority,
i could endeavour to do a Soviet
sleep experiment,
but, to be frank, my liver can
become knock-out mush.
where else would you find a flag of red, white and brown?
where, if not in the toilet - god, i hate people lying -
it gets on my nerves -
it's not like we ate the fruit
of Eden and came up with
not knowing anything -
what became the ultimate
poetic canvas, has, truly, expired
under my watch -
it just became too much of
a tedium, than a source of inspiration -
all they ever did was recite
the safety-net passages of a ******
affair - and yes, i do have a memory
of a specific thought, on of them being:
what will be the last song i'll ever hear...
i started pondering:
King Crimson's *epitaph?
or Madonna's material girl? i couldn't choose -
so there i was, sitting on the throne of
thrones reversing the pleasure of ****,
Frank O'Hara was there,
and my book was there,
apart from the odd typos, it actually
felt pretty good reading some of these poems,
for the first time, a perfect environment to
read my own poems: on a toilet.
flush! echoing flush!
sounds about right...
sure, i enjoyed them,
but what i did enjoy more was wiping my ***:
hence the title: red, white and brown...
blood from my ****... if this is pain...
sign me up for more...
that's what i don't understand:
he lied about the lie (you know
who the protagonist of Milton is) -
we learned to lie -
people always bemoan toothaches,
now... toothaches i can understand,
no one lies about toothaches -
but the rest of our bodies?
those ******* molluscs and oysters?
i don't even think they are able to conceive pain...
bones... sure, i get it...
teeth especially... but those soft pouches?
they either harden up, or die off...
people just lie about pain...
they love the crucifixion scene they
want mourners to stabilise them in
their bed-ridden-riddle -
if i'll tell you it hurts... i'll tell you
why, perhaps i was wiping my *** too
vigorously, proclaiming: now, those
pederasts really know how to write a poem...
i can't imagine the major organs
succumbing to more pain than the usual
pain someone chooses to attribute them
through abuse... i see death and think:
you're the right odd cheater in giving out
anaesthetics... aren't you?
it's when it goes to the bone...
i can imagine pain in bones to be like anything
above the soft-tissues turning into
snails and some child-sadist pouring
salt on snails... or smearing frogs with
lipstick and setting them alight (i have seen this
being done: ******* freak-show,
that's all i thought)...
as one man said: death comes slowly...
or in all honesty: death comes painlessly -
but i don't know if the red on the toilet
paper is equivalent of impeding death,
or merely an optic impediment that i have
no solution to...
all in all... i rather keep that cranium
canary of mine content with synthetic sleep
than keep my liver toxin-free -
sure, i wish i could
experience analytical sleep these days:
analysis, i.e.: we shipped 10 tonnes of x
we shipped 10 tonnes of y,
we put into storage 20 tonnes of z...
i know what manual labour is like,
i mean, roofing isn't exactly doing a manicure...
the whole: doin' it for 20 years argument
doesn't really matter... i have one complete
roof under my belt: Scottish Widows' HQ (St. Paul's
on the Central Line) - and if you think,
for a moment, that i wouldn't rather be up
there, on the roofs, winter thinking about
long ships and the wind, and
summers and jeans and frying ******* -
then you're sadly mistaken -
all i have for entertainment these days
is a few women, who have a secure life,
bake, vacuum, all the 1950s stereotypes,
****, throw 'em in! and in their spare time
write poems... oh sure, me the fiendish brute,
the ogre - the whatever that comes from
a woman's arsenal of - because being puppy-eyed
and sopping, just doesn't do it justice enough...
in that respect, Philip Augustus (the 2nd)
of the Capetian monarchy was a woman...
yep, had a ***-change and manipulated
Henry II, Richard I and John
like a woman might in an ****:
three holes... one has to fit to adequate pleasure.
oh soft sweet death... why are you languishing
in the worded furore and taking your time?
this is getting, a little bit... too ridiculous:
all those abstracts of feeling, idealists everywhere...
but never from personal experience:
and just because you read idealists across the learned
spectrum... doesn't necessarily make you one...
sometimes you turn into a realist -
and what most people can face up to:
exhibit a. angry man
exhibit b. pacifist man
exhibit c. a stick
exhibit d. a riot scene.
i could endeavour to do a Soviet
sleep experiment,
but, to be frank, my liver can
become knock-out mush.
where else would you find a flag of red, white and brown?
where, if not in the toilet - god, i hate people lying -
it gets on my nerves -
it's not like we ate the fruit
of Eden and came up with
not knowing anything -
what became the ultimate
poetic canvas, has, truly, expired
under my watch -
it just became too much of
a tedium, than a source of inspiration -
all they ever did was recite
the safety-net passages of a ******
affair - and yes, i do have a memory
of a specific thought, on of them being:
what will be the last song i'll ever hear...
i started pondering:
King Crimson's *epitaph?
or Madonna's material girl? i couldn't choose -
so there i was, sitting on the throne of
thrones reversing the pleasure of ****,
Frank O'Hara was there,
and my book was there,
apart from the odd typos, it actually
felt pretty good reading some of these poems,
for the first time, a perfect environment to
read my own poems: on a toilet.
flush! echoing flush!
sounds about right...
sure, i enjoyed them,
but what i did enjoy more was wiping my ***:
hence the title: red, white and brown...
blood from my ****... if this is pain...
sign me up for more...
that's what i don't understand:
he lied about the lie (you know
who the protagonist of Milton is) -
we learned to lie -
people always bemoan toothaches,
now... toothaches i can understand,
no one lies about toothaches -
but the rest of our bodies?
those ******* molluscs and oysters?
i don't even think they are able to conceive pain...
bones... sure, i get it...
teeth especially... but those soft pouches?
they either harden up, or die off...
people just lie about pain...
they love the crucifixion scene they
want mourners to stabilise them in
their bed-ridden-riddle -
if i'll tell you it hurts... i'll tell you
why, perhaps i was wiping my *** too
vigorously, proclaiming: now, those
pederasts really know how to write a poem...
i can't imagine the major organs
succumbing to more pain than the usual
pain someone chooses to attribute them
through abuse... i see death and think:
you're the right odd cheater in giving out
anaesthetics... aren't you?
it's when it goes to the bone...
i can imagine pain in bones to be like anything
above the soft-tissues turning into
snails and some child-sadist pouring
salt on snails... or smearing frogs with
lipstick and setting them alight (i have seen this
being done: ******* freak-show,
that's all i thought)...
as one man said: death comes slowly...
or in all honesty: death comes painlessly -
but i don't know if the red on the toilet
paper is equivalent of impeding death,
or merely an optic impediment that i have
no solution to...
all in all... i rather keep that cranium
canary of mine content with synthetic sleep
than keep my liver toxin-free -
sure, i wish i could
experience analytical sleep these days:
analysis, i.e.: we shipped 10 tonnes of x
we shipped 10 tonnes of y,
we put into storage 20 tonnes of z...
i know what manual labour is like,
i mean, roofing isn't exactly doing a manicure...
the whole: doin' it for 20 years argument
doesn't really matter... i have one complete
roof under my belt: Scottish Widows' HQ (St. Paul's
on the Central Line) - and if you think,
for a moment, that i wouldn't rather be up
there, on the roofs, winter thinking about
long ships and the wind, and
summers and jeans and frying ******* -
then you're sadly mistaken -
all i have for entertainment these days
is a few women, who have a secure life,
bake, vacuum, all the 1950s stereotypes,
****, throw 'em in! and in their spare time
write poems... oh sure, me the fiendish brute,
the ogre - the whatever that comes from
a woman's arsenal of - because being puppy-eyed
and sopping, just doesn't do it justice enough...
in that respect, Philip Augustus (the 2nd)
of the Capetian monarchy was a woman...
yep, had a ***-change and manipulated
Henry II, Richard I and John
like a woman might in an ****:
three holes... one has to fit to adequate pleasure.
oh soft sweet death... why are you languishing
in the worded furore and taking your time?
this is getting, a little bit... too ridiculous:
all those abstracts of feeling, idealists everywhere...
but never from personal experience:
and just because you read idealists across the learned
spectrum... doesn't necessarily make you one...
sometimes you turn into a realist -
and what most people can face up to:
exhibit a. angry man
exhibit b. pacifist man
exhibit c. a stick
exhibit d. a riot scene.
