.the English pronounce the Cornish town's name as: nookie... the **** is it, a Green Day album name, or a Limp Bizkit song? perhaps i'm too French in my pronunciation... quail... eggs... quay... qua-a... if i were Welsh i'd write you the name like so... newyddquaa... but no... but no, has to be nookie... like buggering a ******* chimp... quail eggs... see how language becomes mutated? nothing is apparently, certainly, stable... always the permutation of a flux... i must have ingested a little of the French concept of: je ne sais quoi when learning English... come one... nouveaucarrière: new quarry... nouveauquai... nookie?! seriously?! Q, Q... Quail eggs... quay... new... quay... maybe the usage of hyphenating words into compounds needs to be revised in the english sprechen... ******* mutation... nookie... ****** ******, + a ******* wookie, walking carpet ride worth the name Chew-a-Buck-back-up! i'd settle for: new-key... some sort of variant of a maritime honing device for locating ships sending distress signals during storms... but... no... but hey... it's authentically Welsh territory... Cornwall is, after all... a pre modern extension of Wales... nookie this: shotgun my *** while is spew rhetoric concerning the health benefits of applying feces instead of ****** cream for the benefits of: no one.

over 20 years spent living on these isles,
and i never made the connection -
Welsh nationalism could only work
if you included Cornwall -
   given that Cornish is very much:
a southern dialect of Çymru -

    i guess... i'm not sure...
    let's put it to the etymological filter...
beginning with primary words:

black
           du   (Cornish)
      du   (Çymru)

    red
       rudh (Cornish)
      coch (Çymru)

    white
          gwydn (Cornish)
gwyn (Çymru)
      
        i guess that's how etymology works,
a shared origins story...
etymology is best
  examined with primary words,
basic nouns / adjectives...

that was the adjective test...
now for the noun test:

sun
          howl (Cornish)
  haul (Çymru)
      
  moon
   loor (Cornish)
    lloer (Çymru)...

    sky
               ebron (Cornish)
   awyr (Çymru) -
   ah...
      now we see what becomes from
etymological deviation...
the sky has to have more
inherent connotations
of a religiosity as the resting place
of sort...

i'm sure that sea, earth, water,
and fire, are very much akin
or mountain...
but i could be wrong...

sea
    mor (Cornish)
  môr (Çymru)
        
earth
    dor (Cornish)
   ddaear (Çymru)

   water
         dowr (Cornish)
      *dŵr (Çymru)

fire
          tan (Cornish)
    tân (Çymru)

mountain
   menedh (Cornish)
         mynydd (Çymru) -

ah... well then...
that explains the separatist movement
of Cornwall akin
to the Spanish Basque or
the Catalonia...

  white cross on a black flag...
they're ******* Welsh down
in Cornwall!
   i was eating a Welsh pasty
all along!
           oh... i see...
  
  that's why they're separatists
down there...
but there's one word that's
crucial in all of this,
given the emblem is
on the Welsh flag...

  dragon...
**** me!
       there's an etymological source
for the word in English...
and, it comes from?
Cornish!

   draig (Çymru)
  dragon... in ******* Cornish!
**** me...

what's... snake?
   serpont (Cornish)
    neidr (Çymru)...

   there are similarities though...
blatant ones...
which explains the separatist
sentiment of the Cornish people...
they are like
the Hindu corp
of the Urdu speaking Welsh...
high Welsh and low Welsh...

nice to know...
thank god i didn't make the brash
etymological decision to
find the long lost cousins
of a shared source
akin to "abstract" words,
like...

        gallos-power-gallu...

****!

          g­od?
       DUW | WUD

well... god is a universal word,
and it matches...
  duw is god in Cornish,
and in Çymru...
   as it is also Allah on Malta...
funny as the fact that Malta
and it's Knights Hospitaller
cross of St. John of
                                 1567.

20 ******* years on these isles -
and only now i realize
why the Cornish are separatists...
they're Welsh...
   in disguise,
under the guise of a tourist
hot spot that's "nookie":
                       i.e. Newquay...

come to think of it...
    even though i'm living in England...
i interacted more with
the Welsh, the Irish and the Scots...
than i have with the English...
    i'm starting to think that...
if i don't make my way to
Yorkshire...
  or Newcastle...
then i lived in a country...
where the supposed countrymen
of said name... never existed!
ha!

well, in english you'd never really know
that Cornwall was once part of Wales,
given that Wales, isn't in the name
Cornwall: but that's in English...

in Polonaise?
        well... Wales / Walia (that double-u
  or rather, the double-v,
   since... erm: ωμέγα?)
         ergo?
      Cornwall / Kornwalia...
      probably the most beautiful part of
England you can begin to imagine...

aside...
   the current debate over "the pond" in
h'america... tuition fees, student debt...
as much as the h'americans love to gloat
and boast this that and the other...

i'm looking at myself...
    i went to university, studied chemistry,
and history...
   3rd year? 12 hours per week in
the laboratories...
three tiers of chemistry:
a.  physical - i hated physical chemistry,
it's so un-chemical...
   too much physics / mathematical
*******, so obviously i was weak at it...
b. inorganic chemistry...
    something that mingles with
   geology / metallurgy...
   eh... so so... it was o.k. and finally
c. organic chemistry...
   my strongest route, my faustian dream...
and so much like cooking,
so much so that... well: heston blumenthal...
maybe that's why i love cooking
so much, since it reminds me of
organic chemistry...
   anyways, i digress...
      back when i studied...
  and labour was in power with their:
education, education, education mantra?
that's what was still great
                  about britain...
the last stand as it were,
   ****, i still remember tha handing over
of hong kong...
    fee, per year? 1,250 quid...
                      that's it...
student loan, 3,000 quid per year...
   i actually did manage to live
             on the 3,000 with enough money
spare to do weekend away trips to paris,
stockholm, barcelona etc. - and god:
how i loved to travel alone,
bumping into strangers in hostels...
and the best part?
    i don't have to repay my loan until
i earn over 15,000 quid per year...
and since i'm not earning that...
                  the loan will be annuled after
30 years...
   mind you... a really **** year to go
to university and become a british citizen...
since... in scotland... e.u. citizens didn't
pay tuition fees!
      hence the massive surge of the polans
circa 2005...
                                 so: america, **** yeah!

but on a night like this,
esp. in the evening prior to the night itself,
there's that surge in electricity in the air...
you're walking to the supermarket
and the most mediocre magic happens...
sonny rollins' blues in your ears
you pass a street lamp and it gets switched
on by the grid...

                   it's only special because
your're listening to jazz and when you listen
to jazz and promenade...
you might as well be as content as if
walking a yorkshire terrier...
    
   while on the way back, instead of your
usual beer... you buy yourself...
a rowntrees ice lolly...
    and you eat that... smirking, feeling
                                                 like a badass.

p.s. the best thing i received from
the university wasn't even the degree...
a chance to play squash, mountain climbing
(glen coe was a beau)...
         a t-shirt...
since, once i left: a self-teaching discipline.

We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave...



There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole
in the wild wood,
only visible by half light - every leap year,
where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes
plot the buggering of slim hipped
virginal pixies.

they sit cross legged on woolsacks-
knitting ****** shaped thorny policies
for the inevitable insertion,
the thickest of **** and hairiest of ****
get to chew upon the sweetmeat
of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity
as a stipend for their buggery,,,

or so the tale goes...

Goddess above me!
Snake of the slime
Alostrael, love me!
Our master, the devil
Prospers the revel.
Tread with your foot
My heart til it hurt!
Tread on it, put
The smear of your dirt
On my love, on my shame
Scribble your name!
Straddle your Beast
My Masterful *****
With the thighs of you greased
With the Sweat of your Itch!
Spit on me, scarlet
Mouth of my harlot!
Now from your wide
Raw ****, the abyss,
Spend spouting the tide
Of your sizzling ****
In my mouth; oh my *****
Let it pour, let it pour!

You stale like a mare
And **** as you stale;
Through straggled wet hair
You spout like a whale.
Splash the manure
And **** from the sewer.
Down to me quick
With your tooth on my lip
And your hand on my *****
With feverish grip
My life as it drinks—
How your breath stinks!

Your hand, oh unclean
Your hand that has wasted
Your love, in obscene
Black masses, that tasted
Your soul, it’s your hand!
Feel my ***** stand!

Your life times from lewd
Little girl, to mature
Worn ***** that has chewed
Your own pile of manure.
Your hand was the key to—
And now your frig me, too!

Rub all the much
Of your **** on me, Leah
****, let me ****
All your glued gonorrhea!
**** without end!
Amen! til you spend!

****! you have harboured
All dirt and disease
In your slimy unbarbered
Loose hole, with its cheese
And its monthlies, and pox
You chewer of *****!
****, you have ******
Up ******, you squirted
Out foetuses, ******
Til ******* you blurted
Out into space—
Spend on my face!

Rub all your gleet away!
Envenom the arrow.
May your pox eat away
Me to the marrow.
**** you have got me;
I love you to rot me!

Spend again, lash me!
Leah, one spasm
Scream to splash me.
Slime of the chasm
Choke me with spilth
Of your sow-belly’s filth.

Stab your demonic
Smile to my brain!
Soak me in cognac
**** and *******;
Sprawl on me! Sit
On my mouth, Leah, ****!

**** on me, ****!
Creamy the curds
That drip from your gut!
Greasy the turds!
Dribble your dung
On the tip of my tongue!

Churn on me, Leah!
Twist on your thighs!
Smear diarrhoea
Into my eyes!
Splutter out ****
From the bottomless pit.

Turn to me, chew it
With me, Leah, *****!
***** it, spew it
And lick it once more.
We can make lust
Drunk on Disgust.

Splay out your gut,
Your *******, my lover!
You buggering ****,
I know where to shove her!
There she goes, plumb
Up the foul *****’s ***!

Sackful of skin
And bone, as I speak
I’ll ****** your grin
Into a shriek.
****** you, ****
****** your gut!

Wriggle, you hog!
Wrench at the pin!
Wrench at it, drag
It half out, **** it in!
Scream, you hog dirt, you!
I want it to hurt you!

Beast-Lioness, squirt
From your *******’s hole!
Belch out the dirt
From your Syphillis soul.
Splutter foul words
Through your supper of turds!

May the Devil our lord, your
Soul scribble over
With sayings of ordure!
Call me your lover!
Slave of the gut
Of the **** of a ****!

Call me your sewer
Of spilth and snot
Your ****-sniffer, chewer
Of the **** in your slot.
Call me that as you rave
In the **** of your slave.

****! ****! Let me come
Alostrael—****!
I’ve spent in your ***.
****! Give me the muck
From my *****’s ****, slick
Dirt of my *****!

Eat it, you sow!
I’m your dog, ****, ****!
Swallow it now!
Rest for a bit!
Satan, you gave
A crown to a slave.

I am your fate, on
Your belly, above you.
I swear it by Satan
Leah, I love you.
I’m going insane
Do it again!

you know, ego-tripping is one thing,
but tackling religious affairs is an another high
altogether, there's no involved involved,
not enough phonetic encoding,
people made more from the New Testament
than they did of Heidegger's being and time,
wait... i might just squeeze in seeing the light.
i see the light almost every night,
and i'm not even a physician,
i'm not awe inspired with all these facts
hanging about, hard to practice philosophy these days,
it an instilled bewilderment having to
placebo ignorance for that spark, original ******.
it was never about giving a ******* an ******
at £110 an hour without faking it,
god it hurt her, hurt her for enjoying her professions,
******* **** just got relegated....
after her ****** and kissing her hand
she just just the owl's ouch... it's hard to get a *******
to enjoy her work, every time i pull my *******
back and pretend to be all Jewry -
of course i'm not really enjoying it, but she is...
you get the picture, a ******* having pleasure
on her working hour while the 100th **** comes
to grease a beginning of the day song;
i payed extra to perform oral *** on them...
you think i stashed my tongue into a ******?
i prefer rare steaks; or *****.

now the confusing bit...
i was born in a zeitgeist that needs revision,
a book published in 1953 by a Swiss psychiatrist
did nothing to postpone the uncovering of
the Antichrist, simply sped up discovering
anti-matter, Nietzsche, as the Polish proverb
states: silent rivers being silent increase the girth...
we know the Antichrist himself stated lived...
hence the zeitgeist.... the pop culture of
the event, i was born into this *******;
and if i didn't go to a Catholic school i'd write
you a piece about how romantically complicated
really was. there's on problem, i'm telling you this
straight from a donkey's gob slobbering -
it's confusing reading Nietzsche then reading
C.G Jung's 1953 published book entitled
answer to Job - it really is, given popular culture's
hopes entitled: plagiarism.
the book involves another diabolical figure
in the arithmetic - the Paraclete -
and boy isn't he the diabolical figure -
he's the good bad bad guy - the Paraclete and the Antichrist
are almost synonyms -
all our pop culture is worthless when Jung dismisses
the farsighted identification of the Antichrist -
it was Nietzsche... why are so any people trying
to imitate given the 21st century? well, not so much
these days, but those born in the 20th century still feel
the effective remnants taking effect -
the Paraclete is no less diabolical than the Antichrist -
we're talking the heresy of modern philosophers
who said that the holy spirit isn't a person but a community
but then pops up the Paraclete...
the lost pluralism of the holy ghost ends up
with a plurality of the false prophets - gamblers -
also a community - not many people have heard the term
Paraclete, they might have spotted a dove with laurel leaves
in Sicily - but nothing more.
Israel by current football scores is still part of Europe
and not part of America... Beitar Jerusalem F.C. and
Maccabi Tel Aviv F.C. - i wasn't asking, the Jews
really want the revival of the Roman empire
with a resurrection of the zealots and sadducees...
believe me, the plurality of the holy spirit personified
into the Paraclete is what Nietzsche did with
gluing together the conglomerate of false prophets
into his t.n.t. maxim of exhaustion... writing maxims
will exhaust you, until you write a bombshell and it's true.
so Jung's answer to Job is kinda paradoxical in
the years that built up a culture of anti -
toward a dyslexic citation of a quote:
since he is the third person of the deity, this is as much
as to say that god will be begotten in the cruelty of man;
originally it was the creaturely man, i.e, not the
creative man, not the ingenious man,
created that begot not creativity but indolence...
i told you you the Paraclete was a diabolic concept
akin to the Antichrist, given that it was hidden and never
stated in the "holy" gospels... the Antichrist was at least
stated in the book of Revelation... the Paraclete
ensuring the holy ghost was personified also meant
a bridge between the polygamy of prophesies in the false
prophet unanimity of suggested prophets -
but only when reading Nietzsche and then reading Jung
and then looking at our current sub- or culture -
but why was it ever a testimony of something holy?
after all, holy was intended for a dove with a laurel leaf
while John baptised -
in terms of sacredness and holiness i itemise to identify
something holy as having not indebtedness to words,
to meanings... by dove i concern myself with sounds,
knocking on doors, meaningless we also achieve yet still
comprehend with onomatopoeia(s)... the coo the coo,
the feline monkish purr - by holy i also invoke
untouchable, or in the doctrine of the Antichrist,
the chandala (of the Indian caste system) -
it's just become too pop and too imitable to hide the concerns
that Jung might have had - animals are ultra-chandala -
but i'm sure you haven't heard of a loss of a Christian
community committing itself toward the personification
of the Holy Ghost as known by the noun Paraclete -
but it's happening...  urbanity coupled with globalisation
and the pristine English village...
it makes no sense to read Jung as if intending to find the identity
of the Antichrist (i went to a faith school, the vocabulary
intended for priests is like ****** to me, get me off my high
i'll bunch up your ******* with a bouquet and punch
it until it looks like autumn - 6ft1 and 115kg... you think
i wouldn't? wanna try?).
i have no message: you are gods, beyond-man and above-angel...
given your little recording of personal matters,
i think you are in a cognitive slaughterhouse -
i have no message to make you gods... you're below animals...
as sad as it sounds, animals don't have selfie-sticks at
museums... gods that admire animals and hope for
the proper jokes from animals... that son of God really
did trick you to believe yourself ~omnipotent but returning
for jokes among dogs playing pianos and trying out
the soprano... the godly third of the unholy trinity is there,
the diabolical third of the holy trinity is also there...
funny how the Third ***** gets cultural attention
and artistic sympathy with bands like Hanzel und Gretyl -
and how modern man takes depression so seriously while
the holocaust survivors almost laugh with helium implosions.
well, you know, culture built on algebraic fractions...
Islam made simple waiting for a nibbling:
or as they say in England about the stabbing in Russel Sq.,
psychiatric problems are our smoke-cover,
better call the Norwegian-Somali outright mad
so we can keep up the proper P.R. tactic -
the English were always like that, esp. with a Muslim
mayor of London - P.C. thorough... as France said:
you find two people buggering in a Niqab you're not
watching five-blind-men touching up an elephant...
******* *******... it was a terrorist attack but
to keep communities united psychiatrists were
invested in to make up some *******.

i'm actually writing in Turkish akimbo on the floor,
****** uncomfortable,
can't do the hunched monkey spine of Blitzkrieg...
the problem lies with my cat,
a Maine **** that's actually a bloodhound
come bed time... his ******* operatic meows
get to me... he will meow down any werewolf's howl
any night of the week, with 200 variations...
he's like a dog when bedtime comes,
he rapes his way into my room,
takes comfort in my writing chair,
keeps me up listening to βετo βετα's
between two selves - i call this the reason
for never stealing from Hinduism...
outside of Hinduism the economic model works
just as effectively as Auschwitz with cows...
come to petted animals, putting yourself
second doesn't... you get to see the many variations
of character in these buggering fur-*****;
****** got gassed, i see it as a natural karma...
because why would he have a Jewish girlfriend
who committed suicide with him the bunker?
i won't pity them... ****** knew the measure
of things, having been gassed himself
he knew the wounds: and so will millions who
thought world war i was fought in vain...
remind me... as once the northern invaders
accommodated the Roman alphabet and dropped
the runes... what you conquer you express
as an incorporation of certain qualities...
luckily the German work ethic was unshaken...
but it shook the English sensible life:
work! work! work! ready meals in between:
two favourites! two! cheese cauliflower and lasagne.
to keep up the once colonial Herrwettlauf in
charity limbo... you ain't donating to any Africans...
Bobbie Geldof fooled you...
it goes into milking the ivory skinned skin-heads
once retired... Africa is more than just a suntan...
it goes back into ensuring we don't work
in Chinese factories under lynching-contracts...
case no. 0 (or contract) - we'll just call you when we need you,
otherwise we'll contract the cheap steel and cheaper
salt from the Dead Sea:
new social order... after all that colonial piracy i'm sure
we can afford investing in a body mass indexes...
is this how efficiency is structured?
quality control and quantity control...
well, capitalism knows quality control...
but it does't have the foggiest about quantity control:
hence so much waste, and supermarkets throwing out
food into the gutter... the quality control is there,
but the quantity control is missing: always excess, always
excess, always excess... sure i get the Muslim
argument about drunken Brits in Spain and Leicester...
but what about those Saudi children speeding
in their sports cars? no one going to criticise them?
after 50 years... our shame will be a greater
instigator of global warming than a diesel engine...
cheeks puffing up into rose and rose and everything's
finally not so rosy as we thought.
so here i am, writing in uptight akimbo without
the writer's hunch of reverse Darwinism,
all because my Maine **** is acting like a bloodhound,
gets depressed before bedtime...
why are these animals needing my bogus company?
when it comes to music i'm selfish; ah! he
doesn't like the night and the modern orchestra of
grizzly exhaust engines doing the baritone with rasping
the new church bell (phlegm) with a hark uvula...
it's called Irish poker for a prayer...
the van de graaff toy generator is on in the darkened room -
then the typing ****** him off, he's off...
thank **** for that...
but why is it that the once infamous Axis strategies
are creeping into those that strove to defeat them?
we are getting Japanese karaoke culture,
we're getting welcoming euthanasia programs spanning
the dicta of Belgium and Switzerland,
as people want dignity in their death...
they're queuing up to the once known enemy...
maybe it's because these Axis powers were
never colonialists...
                                 just finishing watching Indian
Summers season two you get the picture...
god and the dodgy monkeys...
stay... sit! stay... sit! **** it, let's lynch that Eton ****
of privy accents... ol chap... ol chappy...
trot along... the turban bomber and half
the thought that a Pole learning obedience from
Russian and German would learn to be cinnamon
skinned in England... i'm almost suspecting the
Irish are the SS in the project.. generation of the Vietnam
saint soaked in gasoline... oddly enough
that has no place in Europe, apologies that i don't
share the sentiment... it's obviously the
counter crucifixion scene and emblem,
but only in: LET'S MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN...
i told you be afraid of the blonde ferret...
i see the prognosis just like Britain exiting the European
union... California is not even America,
who gives a **** about the American Secular Vatican, anyway?
it will be like as if Canada was part of America
and resembled Scotland in the Jackshit Union...
gross the vote on the puppet...
the Democrats will get New York (the equivalent
of London) - i don't know how to twin Reading,
and that blue belt of remain campaigners linking the two,
half of who would speak as much of French
as an advert concerning the sales of socks...
or enough German to order a pint of beer in a Bavarian
pub... well, Canada would vote like Scotland,
one revolutionary figure (who was actually Muslim,
and never cared for African-American concerns
of Baptism... singing hallelujah was never part
of the do)... can't be replaced with another revolutionary
figure... he was never exactly a Martin Luther King Jr.,
more of Malcolm X than you thought...
that strip between London and Reading
will be translated into Ronald Reagan's resurrection...
a billionaire is more ridiculous than
an actor? well... who we going to call the pretty boy
and the favourite of media cartoonists? boots on the ground,
a society that doesn't practice dialectics is not
only rude, but out-of-date...
the debate of the park bench now resides in separate
stadiums, monologues that involve something
that physics unearthed: two sources of negativity
existing in two places, at the same time...
if this is a debate, then i got the postal code wrong...
the dialectics of knowing nothing became: i still know
nothing, but i have 4 million people supporting me.
i imagine the cavemen to be less subjective that we
try to imagine ourselves as resembling, Michael Palin
in the Sahara... cavemen worked on instinct, not on
appeal to the intellect... that thing
about the jokes of the vibrating lips and the index finger
moving against them to invent the Mongolian harmonica...
given the complication of urban life... well...
you'll hardly revise that bit... that part of life is gone...
i assumed that the more we evolved the less
naked we became... but given evolution and having
created this parasitic symbiosis with the natural
elements... the more i think of it: the more naked we're
becoming - the more dependent -
the original sin as conceived from the delusion that we
were disabled by our originally conception of nakedness...
it only comes now... once the dependency kicks in
and we're all in bow-ties and cocktail dresses...
hello Herr Fetish and page 3 milking of the farmyard
cows of our imagination - Islamic eye-fetish,
we heard of footfetish... must be about oral ***...
knees baby knees, Arab has eyefetish on your knees...
i have a fetish for hands... see how the cameraman zoomed
in on the hands of the women fencing?
once instinct governed us... and instinct's expression
of intelligence was: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll get **** with his concubines in the harem...
these days intellect governs us... and intellect's
expression of instinct is: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll whip up a horde of lawyers, file a lawsuit
and get away it because he nudged me in a supermarket...
honestly, i don't think educating people was a great
evolutionary step forward...
we have more law-prose liposuction on the pages of
history than a Tolstoy could muster a novel -
and because we taught everyone literacy,
the once necessary backbone of our economy,
the workers... well... let's just say that the Founding
Fathers made their muscles into oysters and molluscs,
floppy protein spaghetti... wiggle wiggle, yeah, wiggle wiggle, yeah...
defeating Communism in a place of the world that was
prone to some sort of religiosity, enzyme John Paul II -
i'd bruise his forehead and lips against those airport tarmacs
i'd get to be the inventor of sand-paper and
the Antichrist's assault on the biblical reference:
it only takes on saint to defeat the congregation... it starts with him...
or with that Calcutta Lady and Hitchens...
and oh... lookie here... up pops Hydra China:
America will be great again... but chances are...
the hot dog and the hamburger will never be re-invented...
watch the pendulum... op op oop oops here it swings
while the Hawaii communal laugh about starving
on coconuts.

So if you want to know upfront,
Then, you should know
That a reasoned selection process was used,
The music was cherry-picked,
Three perfect compact discs,
Hanging there from the branch,
(Actually CD stack storage)
And me, with a sativa buzz,
Working nicely, grazie mille.
I sit down to write another one of my “fakakta” poems.
The music?
Three crystal gems
Liquid pearls, all of great price.
To wit: (1) “The Best of Joe Cocker,”
(Joe died last year, and
Don’t we/Shouldn’t we
Consider him a close associate,
A kid we grew up with?)
(2) “A Twist of Marley,”
A “Verve Music” product,
Brilliant conception!
Montego Bay gone South Chicago,
A sweet instrumental miscegenation--
A potent, wicked fusion of reggae & jazz--
Manifested by Dave Grusin,
Gerald Albright, Lee Ritenour, & Others.
And last, but not even close to being least,
(3) “MILES DAVIS Kind of Blue.”
Lest we forget Norman Jewison’s
Homage to Mambo Brooklyn Italiano
Cher & her wacky greaseball family:
The Castorinis.
The Cammareri.
The Cappomaggios.
Did I hear someone say “*** Stereotype?”
Bam! A double “Moonstruck” slap,
Just to remind you:
“I’m talkin’ here.”

Lest we forget:
Coltrane blew tenor sax
Both March & April 1959 sessions,
Columbia 30th Street Studio,
New York City.
And if you've heard
"Freddie Freeloader," a
Sizzler solid 9 minutes & 49 seconds,
I think it’s probably a good time
To go check to see if you
Left the garden hose on.
BAM!
Now do I have your attention?

We pensive Boomers--
We take stock.
We ponder the clock, a
Vexatious tick-tock
Arctic soundtrack,
Music in the key of winter of
Our discontent/content.
YOU MUST CHOOSE ONE!
Time to script your buggering off,
Time to settle in
On an exit strategy.
“Yes, hurry up, it's time.” screams T.S. Eliot,
From an English major’s
Vast wasteland archive.
The scoreboard reads 4th Quarter now.
We ruminant Boomers,
Facing up to it at last, are we?
To be or not: a serene letting go, or
“Rage against the dying of the light?”
Dylan chimes in:
Thomas, meet Thomas.
Oprah, Uma.

So you should know upfront,
I got a great buzz on.
The music is groovy.
This poem ends here.

The addictive aroma of
Well-aged nostalgia, and a
Hurricane-yellow sunset, was
Striking from the Western Side.
The east, full of forest. It
Often goes Unappreciated. 

Sat alone, and gritting his teeth
Over it, his forehead wet,
Losing patience, sweating 
Droplets, wiped up by the
Dollars you couldn't afford to spend.
Outwardly expressing: "Overwhelmed."

Born of the burning woods, and 
Left to ash, again, with the leaves, the
Scent settled, clearly set on
Sticking around. 

In the mood to bleed, and
Drag some metal, through the 
Dirt caked on your legs?
Filth burns brighter indoors, and my
Power's just gone out. 

But you cast quite a shadow, when 
Lightning interrupts the black.  
"Storm'd been on it's way for a while.
I'm relieved, it finally hit us. 
Fair weather felt dishonest. "

Long hair's got a few more days left in it,
Bags under his eyes, not quite full, 
Intent on the ideal, and
Going out on his shield.
Decrying the Curse of the Under-employed.

Barking beckons him back, and 
Beneath his broken heart, beating,
Beyond a reasonable doubt, 
Buggering on. Exhaustingly enthusiastic. 
The howled woofs, and selected drum lines.
Droning, diligent, 
"And pleased to meet you, darling."

He flips open one of his 
Boxes, counts to seventeen, and sighs. 
Puts a cigarette between his lips. 
Lights it. Counts to sixteen, and sighs. 
Closes that box, and buys another. 

"One third of what he says is nonsense, but
When you talk, he listens." And 
Love's a vice, he can't help but
Nourish. Hiding in fog, and
Drowning in his cheap whiskey. 
Perfectly cornered, writing a poem about it.

sometimes i drink, to simply drink...
and find myself: absentee doing the nod...
the drunk will, nod,
akin to a ****** addict...
before he claims to remember
a blitzkrieg of thought from the monring:
would it be better...
that i drink expensive alcohol...
and become a...
no... i somtimes drink in order to tow myself...
i was hopig for some grand adventure
hopping... nay nay... hope-ing...
****... hoping... when ut's not underlined...
what's the "nod" or the "nodding"?
well... meet me in oblivion if you want...
and we can chorus: amen!
i drink because: even if there was
a "drinking buddy"...
no... not today, not tomorrow:
noi leftover Tuessday...
i drink and ensure that i'm alone because...
how else to drag the reflective self
along: suffix... always missing
the prefix and the self- reflexive...
constant... ****-buggering reminder!
drinking alone is like...
a clarity of "solipsism"...
and the world became a better place...
when michel de montaigne only
wrote about himself...
i don't own a book...
but i'm pretty ******* sure...
the 12th rook for life...
it's hard to walk the streets...
to acquire a petting of one...
a cat is not a dog is not a leash
nor a muzzle...
i drink... because...
i... i drink the cheap **** god's ****
for the sole reason that i will
never become a connoisseur...
the more expensive the bundle of "york"...
the lesser the viking invasion...
to be drunk is to be uninhibited:
to be... dishibited...

nigh-quen-dough?
oh right... queenies and the brazilian
overload...
lament the shadow people...
first comes first:
as always the rice per....
the starving bowl...
or; riddle...

fore! a bubbling sense of what's
to become of an iceberg!
and...

best i drink alone...
this sort of drunk needs no conversation...
timidity via the saved
crumbs from the slanted table...

it's not a champagne flute!
it's a glass elongated...
cider and some whiskey
to signature it...

better alone...
it's called the lighthouse -
and... there's no cat involved...
and...
when the moon...
full-faced... preteding to hide
behind a cloud...
turns out all... milky...
and the night is only
just beginning...

no none of this...
will ever resolve itself within
the confines of an award ceremony...
the lesser life...
the closet life...
the everyday purr-and-life...
i drink because...

i'm tired of... what other people want...
i drink because i'm titred:
what other people have...
better i "clarified" myself
and became a cleft...
become... a bergman thespian...
all black & white and ****...

i'm just... tired...
before the cross! in the shadow
of a giza pyramid!
before you came!
after you so come!
i'm tired of bow-tie & tux
expectations -
i'm tired... the least of my drinking
patterns give me...
ambrosia... and gymnastic agility
to call: 5pm... the 9pm when
my brain thinks itself wholly material...
and the soul; somehow: dies...

i drink because i'm tired...
i prefer to drink alone...
i'm vaguely democratic...
tyrant: yes... tirade.. double up on!
otherwise: that spezialz plazez of
the sober... god given...
democratic citizens of hollywood
centralz...

drunk moi:
+ cat
+ cartwheel
+ l.s.d.

            to sink a titanic with: an evil eye...
borrowed from a persian myth...
also: the inability to digest...
heaps of pseudo-gravel...
some call it couscous,...

i drink in order to find the imitation
of drowning...
or... the quest! for gills!

lesser thoughts and the more disgruntling
efforts: picasso smiles...
i drink and i will pursue to drink...
because...
sober is a bypass... otherwise sober is...
kosher salt... play-dough...
blindman's backgammon...
puff-pastry's summons!

sink the titanic... and the tel aviv
contort.
have your way...
because... even now...
helmut spinoza... back then?
heresy... right about now?
a toothpick's concern.
it's called a fork and knife...
you'd pike and knife it as being cut...
later...
rather than pinching all the way through.

i'm tired of the jews being shadow people...
i'm tired of the jews being...
conspiracy theory NPCS...
they have reclaimed Israel..
they want to wrestle with god...
the **** is h'america to be necessary
to conform?
the ******* payot harem?
only the hasidi jews are the literate
people of the world?
                                                     hafiz?
chosen people: yup...
zee spezialz....
        spaz bastardadoughdoughdo or don'ts.
sink the titanic...
give me... the ******* mirror...
i'll sonner die than
cleave myself to the lesser demands
of man... via hey-zeus cha-cha bistro from
a cross... *******-wacking feudal... and an ism!