And Helens mother says as Helen climbs down the stairs of the building mind the road and dont talk to people you dont know and make sure you get the right change from Baldys you know what hes like Helen holds the stair rail and takes one step at a time as they are quite steep and she doesnt want to fall down in her small palm she holds the coins for the shopping and they are becoming damp as she holds them so tight and in her other hand she holds a bag to put the shopping in and thinking over in her mind how much change she ought to have if her sums are right and she thinks she has got it right although Baldy will get it right no doubt but she must try and get it right or her  mum will tell her off she reaches the lowest stair and stands there looking back up the stairs and waits to hear if her mother has stopped talking and its all quiet and so she moves out into the street and the sky looks grey and rainy looking and that man is on the corner in his black coat buttoned up to his neck and the black trilby hat and he looks at her as she passes and she looks away her mother had said dont talk to people you dont know and she doesnt know him but her dad said the mans a bookies runner although shes not seen him run anywhere as yet although he may run when shes not looking and she wonders as she passes him what a bookies runner is and why he stares at her so he doesn't look friendly in fact he looks like a criminal as far as she knows what a criminal looks like the man turns away and gazes up Rockingham Street and she walks quickly to Baldys shop and climbs over the steep step that leads into the shop and it is quite full and so she waits her turn behind Mrs Knight who is a tall thin lady from upstairs who has cats and she smells of cats and when she looks out of her door when at home she looks like a cat too Helen sniffs yes cat smell she thinks and looks at Mrs knights coat and sees cats hairs and she holds a purse in her thin hand and a shopping bag in the other Helen being only eight years old cant see beyond Mrs Knight but at the side she can see other people at the counter and Baldy is busy and his assistant is rushing about quite madly Helen thinks she ought to have gone to the loo before she came out shopping because now she feels like she needs to *** but she doesnt want to go back home again so she tries to think of something else to take her mind off of the *** wanting feeling then someone taps on her shoulder and as she turns she sees its Benny the boy from school who lives up the road and whom she likes and who doesnt call her four-eyes or take the mickey out of her hello Helen says looking at Benny what you doing here? shopping for Mum he says holding up a brown shopping bag got a list or ill forget I always forget he says he moves close to her and shows her the coins wrapped in a paper list in the palm of his hand you shopping too? he asks yes she says looking shy and gazing at him got to get some things I can remember what Mum says and what change I have to get afterwards he studies her as she stands there her hair in plaits with a center parting and the wire framed glasses which make her eyes look large and cow like and the faded red flower dress and green cardigan with two buttons missing what you doing after? he asks dont know she replies why where are you going? going to the herbalist he says get some liquorice sticks and a glass of sarsaparilla could I come too? she says if Mum lets me and Ive done all that she wants? sure you can he says meet me by the Duke of Wellington if you can go about ten or so if youre not there by ten past ten Ill go without you he says she nods her head and hopes she can go and looks at him standing there his brown hair and hazel eyes and a cowboy hat at the back of his head and the six shooter in the belt of his blue jeans and she feels happy for the first time since shed got up and she says can Battered Betty go too? sure he says and she smiles and senses her heart go quickly in her chest thump thump thump thump yes Helen what can I do for you? Baldy asks her as she is next in line to be served so she recites what her mother had told her so much sugar in a blue package and a certain amount of cheese and a pound of broken biscuits and a loaf of bread and o yes a dozen eggs she says offering him an empty egg box and he goes off to fulfil the recited list and Benny is served by the assistant and he hands the man the list and the man reads it and goes off to put together the items on Benny list and suddenly Helen feels the need to *** again and hopes Baldy wont be long getting the stuff she asked for and o yes Benny says my old man says hes taking me to the pictures on Sunday did you want to come? he wont mind its a U film so kids can go too she pushes her knees together hoping Baldy will hurry up Ill ask Mum Helen says feeling the sweaty coins in her palm and having to pass the bookies runner and hope she wont do her any harm.

Across the road
from the underground station
next to the Christian tabernacle
you sat with Helen

on the standing wall
of a bombed out house
she clutched her doll
Battered Betty

looking around her
I've never been
on this bomb site before
she said

the people who lived here
must have been really scared
if they heard the siren in time
they may have got out

but some didn't of course
you said
trying to imagine
what the houses looked like

before the bombing
how the gardens
may have been well kept
may have had vegetables

and flowers growing
in the small beds
at the back of the house
a lady my mum knew

got blown up
and all they found
was her hand
with her wedding ring

still there
Helen said
******* up her nose
making her thick lens glasses

move on her nose
my mum said
she and her stepfather
used to hide

under the large oak table
in the kitchen
if they got caught out
by the bombing

you said
and Mum said her stepfather's bottom
was sticking out
at one end of the table

Helen laughed
you liked it when she laughed
it made dimples in her cheeks
and her eyes lit up

behind her glasses
best not tell Mum
I've been on the bomb site
Helen said

she said they're dangerous places
they are
you said
but hell what would life be

without a bit of danger?
what does your dad say
when you tell him
you've been on the bomb sites?

she asked
rocking Battered Betty
in her arms
nothing much

except not to wear
my best clothes on there
is that all?
she said

yes pretty much
you said
what about your mum?
you looked at her

her hair tied in two pigtails
her eyes large
beyond the lens
she says be careful

not to climb
you said
but you do
Helen said

you did it just now
to get up here
yes I know that
and you know that

but my mum needn't
you said
banging the back
of your shoes

on the wall gently
don't you tell
your mum everything
you do?

she asked
I do
you frowned
I try not to worry her

you said
doesn't she asked
what you've done or been?
yes but I needn't

tell her everything
you said
she has enough worries
without me adding to them

I think it best
I imagine other places
or things done
to keep her

from worrying
Helen shook her head
you have a strange
sense of truth

she said
holding Betty tight
to her chest
her chin resting

on the doll's head
how about an ice cream
at Baldy's​​​?
you said

Baldy's?
she said
where is Baldy's​?
the grocer shop

before you get
to the railway bridge
down Rockingham Street
you said

the owner is as bald as a coot
she laughed
ok
she said

and so you both
climbed down
from the wall
and walked down

and along
to the subway
and on to the shop
to get ice creams

she smiling
with her battered doll
you with your cowboy
shooting dreams.

I start at 6,000 feet
I'm glad I have gloves today
After three miles I stopped to eat
Orange, banana, and drink vitamin water

I move down a bit into the canyon
To wash my hands
The water is so clear and cold

As I got to the top of the ridge
A Korean couple makes their way down

He asks me what time?
I asked again what he said
He asked what time I started
I said about 1:15

He said with his accent, "You are very strong, very strong."
I said, "Oh no, you are very fit."

He asked how old he was
He and his wife were seventy-seven

I asked him if he had been to the summit many times
He said, "Yes, many times."

He was born in the year 1935
And still had the strength to reach 10,000 feet

I hiked for about another thirty minutes
And sat on a rock
I meditated on saw the mist come and leave

It floats through in front of the pine I am staring at

I kept the mind free of thoughts
Form is emptiness
Emptiness is form

Maybe I am strong like the Korean man said
After all
I feel like I live in the wrong body
I have an akward body
I am always alone and jobless

At least I have technology
I don't have many friends
And I'm losing at life

At least there is Mt. Baldy
I hope to spend more time there

I think I might be a pervert.

I mean, a mere bite of her lip,
stroke of the hair
or flick of
her hip
sends fire around my body
criminalises my mind
and throws me outside,
to look pressed
nose against
the glass,
breath blurring up
the window,
and my view of her ***.

Yep,
I think I might be a pervert.

Aren't you?
I mean when it's hot,
don't you get thirsty
from
sitting beside
the fountain?
Course you do,
we're all perverts,
even those baldy
monks up on some
breast-like mountain.

a misty start
   with worlds to go
a walk through forest,
   desert, snow
with altitude
   and dizzy joy
a challenge which
   my strength employs
a peaceful summit
   waiting warm
where thought and poetry
   find form
from near the sun
   our minds turn
to worlds below
   we will return


-TylerN @ 10,040 feet, 2018.05.12

i never understood why poetry books were and are so expensive, there's Darwin lounging smoking a cigarette listening to some Victorian erich segal, e. l. james, diana gabaldon or a loretta chase - while imaging, well, you know, why the the Bayeux tapestry represents the Normans invasion with humanoids, hence the pressure on artists to follow-up with self-portraits, otherwise it ended up with two monkeys ******* in his head... but such writers are equivalent to manual labourers, they don't care if their books aren't finished, they are equivalent of bricklayers, ploughing the fields of blanks unearthing potatoes and more potatoes (words)... some Chinese poet-drunkard trying to escape Tibetan meditation writes a haiku... and that's about it, he says laughing at the moon: 'this is bothersome! for one thing our ancestors chose a ****** difficult phonetic encoding, maybe this was xenophobia in disguise, but the Ming dynasty project is nothing compared to how we write she and shin, no amount of labour will be as effective as our pictographs, some say this is a defence against invaders, and i believe them, they got as far as ***** trading with us, now we have cheap steel and Russian allies... forget the great wall, the real defence against invaders and accusations of xenophobia is in the encoding, which also means we can **** the mathematical encoding like an elephant ******* a chicken, with its trunk, blowing air into it so the chicken ends up flying, along with the ostrich'.

when i write crude i know i'm exhausting a poem,
or at least the introduction, to a poem,
but such are crude comparisons, they tell you when
to stop the flux of the unintended direction -
but i agree with him, western powers abuse
the haiku mechanism, back in the east the haiku
appears from blank, partly due to that Tibetan
baldy blubber in later age in India -
in the west we have the crown of myrrh, and due
to the overload of sensual stimulation with that,
and the lashing prior to the crucifixion,
an over-exited state of sensuality, meaning more
cognitive outpourings, hence not one haiku
in a year about some freckled salmon jumping
over the moon with a momentary diamond of snow
on its tail... but a whole list of them...
without any verbal tradition to remember either...
take the Tibetan lounging and the Hebrai hanging,
why did we ever take the latter up?
well, question answered, the west is quietly shunning
the church's influence, all you need is a Buddha
head in your living room and it's primo aprilis -
well, not it's Prima Aprilis, *Prima dies Aprilis,
it's a jokers day in Poland, i experienced one myself,
you run around the town drenching each other in water,
or as i call it, baptising each other, for jokes,
buckets of water... in the west it's just a toys 'r' us
advert owning a water-gun, but you hardly see
children in western society, esp. in England,
they're exposed to overt-sexuality prematurely,
they're stiff on the monkey bars, stiff on bicycles,
stiff playing football, stiff climbing trees (if ever),
stiff or coffin like only ready to play the one game they
know best: bullying and make-up, and short-skirts,
and karaoke dreaming all the leaves are brown,
and the sky is grey, i've been for a walk, on a winter's day,
i'd be safe from walking, if i wasn't in L.A., california
dreaming, on such a winter's day, it's only
outdoors if there's a prize involved, not the smell of grass
or cow ****... strap me up Scott'e, i'm about to venture
into the grand world wearing a ******... anyway,
you never write more than one haiku a year...
but before i do a Robert Frost as cited by Jack Spicer
"any ****** fool can get into a poem but it takes
a poet to get out of one", citation? helen: a revision
part of the San Francisco Renaissance mini movement.
but today's panorama show, about the exit vote,
Hilarious **** being investigated by the F.B.I., Trump
turned into a T-Rex in a children's book - tiny hands,
big quiff - and in a global community where slavery
is frowned at, piracy is not really, the vain hopes
of former glories, listening to old farts reminiscent of
the empire esp. in the north is like listening to a fake ******,
my grandparents could say the same ******* in Poland,
the loss of the steel industry, much due to the extinction
of communism in Europe, feminism and the soft-industry
jobs of primarily advertisements, the manly jobs?
they're all Chinese... why blame eastern europeans?
you like your ******* chicken chow mein you little *****?
well i'm certainly liking my korma chicken curry, eat it!
an economy that prizes only profit and not continuity
exporting everything to King Kong Mao will look for
scapegoats anywhere, i'm surprised it's not the Jews this
time, and it's so funny, i mean, born & prop'ah bred
Anglo, imported from Pakistan, oh yeah, "prop'ah",
now they're the best mates, once master and the slave,
now two masters, hand in hand, should be a joke
poster like the socialist fraternal kiss (the capitalist
fraternal kiss is - you guessed it! mouth kissing an ****!),
so you have to really trim the curtains of the ethnic
dress of King Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud to get
a selfie with Tony Blair and Bush Jr. getting stuck in -
at a time when no Londoner feels safe outside
of England, esp. in the north, perhaps in Scoot-land
(three years up there, i built up an affinity with
them against Jacky Uno and the flag,
right now i'm burning it in my head, ah, for scrap jokes);
and then they box in the idea that whoever earns money
can't do what the hell he wants with it... listen...
after not being given the Marshall Plan option, and instead
given an ideal like communism i think it's best some
of the money heads east to fund the post-Gorbachev plan
(why was Sweden included in the plan? Sweden
was neutral! they were the myth-machine generators
of ******'s late discovery of the ability to bleach your hair!),
and why would i spend my money in Southend anyway?
or Blackpool on candyfloss? community?
you want a community? how the hell is community going
to work... this ain't a village, this a globalised world...
plus, why associate yourself with vermin?
and all this is going around while the rats from
respective parties jump the boat and leave the public
to blame themselves... but that's how it is, in this
schizoid metaphor, bilingualism is extreme as much as
mono-lingual psychology, but less rooted and historic
and continuity biased... happy those who know only
one tongue or three and more... with bilingualism
you become a psychological mongrel, while others are mongrels
of the flesh, soul-mongrel breeding is harsh,
you're neither here, nor there, and your idea of heaven
becomes something like: wake me up again speaking
Norwegian, because at least i can identify in that region
something that isn't here or there - but being first
generation and remembering to speak the mother,
i wasn't going to do the solo ethnic cleansing and speak
only one tongue... if i did... you think i'd be speaking with
my father and his broken English? ha! *nie!

Let.... me... sleep...
Please.
PLEASE! let me sleep!

You keep me awake with your toxic kisses
Wrapping yourself around me,
Soothing me in a false comfort,

My eyes are heavy,
My head is weary,
So please, PLEASE!
Let me sleep.

It was fun in the beginning,
You gave me more time in the night,
You keep me up,
So I could study,
You keep me up,
So I could keep in touch with myself,

My mind was free to wonder with this extra time,
Just to have you confirm,
That I'm who I say I am,

The nights were fine,
But my days became ****,
Not having the energy or patience for others,
Greeting my teeth in frustration,
As people wonder where I went,

I am right here!,
But Im really not...,
I'm trapped in my mind,
Which is screaming!,

Screaming at me,
To scrap any couple of minutes of shut eye that I can,
Looking for any break in my day,
To just get away,
Away from the noise...,
The people...,
My friends...,

Any energy I have is used just
To keep moving,
To keep standing,
To keep awake,
Throughout the day,

Any chair becomes a temperpedic mattress,
Finding comfort with ease,
In the most random places,

Which makes sleep easy,
But the cricks I'm my neck are not worth it,

Teachers lectures become slurred mumbles,
Like the adults in charley brown,
But much more melodic,

Just to be shaken out of my daze,
By the sound of back packs zipping,
And Chairs shuffling,
At the end of class,

Socializing is not revitalizing,
Being around my high energy friends,
Just fries my system,
It does not jump start it,

My friends wonder where their energetic friend went,
I just tell them I haven't been sleeping well...,
Excluding you and what you do to me,

**** IT! LET ME SLEEP!,
I no longer want to be a creature of the night!
You topsided my life schedule like a row boat in a tsunami!,
Only to feel your furry in the middle of the day,

Now I am afraid to see you at night,
Knowing you will ruin my life,

As if like clock work,
your there in my bed,
As soon as I'm comfortable and cozy,
Echoing my thoughts...,
Letting my mind travel...,

Traveling to no where!,
You take me on journeys that last a life time!,

Nudging me...,
Egging me on..,
To go on night drives,
My poem book is filled to the brim,
Full of all these ideas you give me,
While my tank is on empty...,

But what is a full mind,
With a weak body?,
What would I be,
Without you?

I'd be free,
I'd be alive,
Free to run!,
Jump!,
Climb!,
Do whatever I wanted!,
Not be held down by your ball and chain...,

Actually hold a conversation with a cute girl,
Without giving up,
Or not even attempting,
Because of you and my lack of energy,

The sun,
Will once again feel,
Like rays of love and warmth,
Rather than a monster constantly,
Trying to sizzle my eyes to a crisp,

Have time and energy to go on a hike with friends,
Instead of fearing I'll pass out,
And fall off the top of mount baldy,

I don't know...,
Maybe view coffee as... just a drink,
Rather than a gift from god,
Sent to help me survive another day In hell!,

I wish these where exaggerations...,
But they are far from it,
Sleep is important to me,

Sigh I just think we should go our separate ways,
We are just no good for each other...,
I got my life to live,
Sleep to catch up on,
So please insomnia.....let me sleep.

He’s not how I remembered him
All charming, tall and handsome
He’s podgy, dull and boring
His cockiness has left him

I nearly started snoring
When he told a story
He’s also going baldy
He’s lost his crowning glory.

I’m not saying he’s not charming
He’s sort of…in a way
But not the man I dreamt of
He’s definitely away!

He’s jaded, tired and bitter
There was no spark or flutter
He asked me if we’d meet again?
“Not sure?” I think I muttered.

some claim it's an aesthetic, others claim it's the mystery of lawlessness, because in all honesty: upper-case Q could be written in lower-case as ǫ, rather than q, all too familiar is ρ (rho) - and there is no law suggesting any convention should be kept to a model of standardisation... hence the dichotomy experienced by dyslexics to the familiar argument: why the disparaging phoneticism from optical aesthetic, why write that and then only say 'y'? much of modern English borrows from the seemingly unnecessary h insertion borrowed from Hindu... dhal... the aesthetic insertion of a surd-letter into an otherwise convenient phonetic-encoding... although either an umlaut or a macron is missing above the a to prolong it; and depending on your aesthetic palette... i'm already advocating a change to sz & cz by stressing the replacement using the caron: š / č... in English the equivalent is bound to words like shrapnel and chatter.

as anyone would say *idiot, i'd say tuman,
that's because:
                          when syllables are inconvenient
i'd stress that, and write túman...
if i were saying swamp, i'd be right
in also saying bägno - obviously
there are distinctions, akin to punctuation
marks, diacritical marks are effectually
"punctuation" marks, well... inccissions
embedded in words;
these aren't rhetorical assertions, they're
biased on the basis of optometry.
then i might add: with a straw
                      alternatively słomką...
otherwise the noun słomka, i.e. straw,
wheat shaft... a shaft hollowed out
and as Polish girls know all too well:
snakebite (at English universities,
half beer, half cider, a head of
                            blackcurrant juice),
but back east it's just beer and raspberry juice
concentrate: funny... where's the rhapsody?
if the ą is used at the end of the word
then there's an intended action involving
the stated thing... but it's not a universal
statement, just this particular instance...
it's odd, i wake up from my Alaskan vigil
and realise i didn't take my sleep-synthetic
requirements to go to sleep during the night
and wake up during the night...
  that means i'm annoyed, putting it mildly.
words that shoot into my head like sunrise...
newspapers are the bearable versions of Proust,
   bypassing publishing houses can allow
for diarrhoea talent, and no to constipated
critically acclaimed blah blah...
    it's 8:36 in the morning and i don't know why
it's ****** beautiful... everyone's so content
with being busy, doing something, anything,
everything... it's that critical moment in autumn
when the leaves on trees have lost the stalemate
with ******-twisting winter frosts,
   and fall into the ***** of death and rot...
and then these random words enter my head,
words i either forgotten to use or are too obscure
to use in the first place, polish slang...
e.g. kumam, i understand -
     p'stro, a condescending consideration
     for explaining something worth contempt
to the other, but not the self, i.e. the magpie attitude.
   i can't help myself, seeing English *******
on by lazy ***** with :) and :( and acronym talk
i feel i have to provide an antidote...
  the ' in p'stro?         bulging / building up,
there's no p in any language with a syllable
distinction worth a diacritical mark...
   and now it's 8:42 in the morning, and i have half
a litre of whiskey to sniff... should i?
what's Copernican west to Copernican a.m.?
   gentlemen only drink in the afternoon...
yep, and Ben Hur drank in the morning for
the calories awaiting the chariot races...
ha ha... i'd love to see a drunk goldfish...
    but it's fun like that... so many serious people out
there who learned the Pink Floyd march of
the hammers... i don't think i can take a bishop
with a bishop's attire seriously...
                   or a skinhead Buddhist monk...
they're all baldy baldy vaseline hoping for the sheen...
can any authority be taken seriously?
       now i'm truly bullshiting...
i lost this one word in my head... sieve:
motyl, butterfly,
           ćmá, moth (that's a slingshot need
          for acuteness on the a, slingshot is the stress on
the c, and the stress on the a is the actual missile,
   oh, by no means is this orthodox),
  język, tongue / language,
  ozór, edible cow tongue: very tender
in creamy horseradish sauce accompanied with
Silesian gnocchi...
            Q is the acute version of K & C,
i.e. what would otherwise be deemed é to an e.
   wolny, a penalty kick / someone who's free,
  wapń, calcium...
                  what i'm basically saying is that we encounter
so much vocal poverty in this world,
so many words are disused or underused or simply
abandoned...
                        someone weeps over a disused building
weathered by the elements...
   i see an opportunity to engage squatters,
or in the case of words: poets.

Holiday: a man backstrokes
oh so gently in the hotel pool.
It’s breakfast time. Bean juice
coagulates on my plate.

I watch the man’s languid, enchanting
backstroke and, for some reason,
it inflates my heart with sentimental joy.
This semi-corpulent middle-aged man,
is, right now,
The Most Beautiful Thing On Earth:

His arcing limbs do not slap or thrash,
but plop into the drink like skipping stones.
He is a babbling brook. A water feature.
The splish-splosh trickle-truckle of a spa waiting room.

And what’s more, this forty-something baldy
gliding through the water
fills me with love for all humanity,
because he seems blithely rapt
in absolute peace
(despite the room rates at this place).

But then, I realise, all of this might be
free association of the mind
linking this moment to a scene in
the Oscar winning motion picture:
Forrest Gump;
when a legless Lieutenant Dan
makes peace with God (for taking his legs),
and backstrokes with the same carefree beauty
into a pink and orange sunrise

(funny how the mind does that).

And suddenly the bubble of beauty is burst.
The portly swimmer becomes just that
(FYI: legs intact),
and my wife returns from the buffet
with a plate of vibrant fruit segments; Cheshire melon
and the greenest kiwi I’ve ever seen.
Lo! Only now have I tasted true kiwi.
And I remember: I’m on honeymoon!
And my wife, in this moment, and forever more,
shall be the only human to be known as:
The Most Beautiful Thing On Earth.

Similar to the way Forrest felt about Jenny,
in the Oscar winning motion picture:
Forrest Gump.

i.
you fought like a tiger -
to stop me from rubbing
sun screen on your delicate
skin, you hated the greasy
feel, and so ran into the ocean
then rolled in the sand and
kicked sand in my face,
               at four
Great Hollow Beach, Truro
     June, 1994

ii.
you never could resist -
if we turned our back
even for a minute you
were off to find the largest
boulder, you would climb to
the top and raise your arms
in victory, and always, always
land in the water, wet and cold,
              at eight
City Beach, South Lake Tahoe
     June, 1998

iii.
oh, how Mt. Baldy called to you -
the giant of a sand dune,
moving inland as a glacier,
a sweep of sand blowing
from the peak ridge, like
the banner of heaven, but
i carried you all the way
back to the house after
you cut your foot on a shard
of glass, carelessly abandoned,
              at eleven
Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore
     June, 2001

You met Janice
going to Baldly's groceries
to get a list of goods
for your mother

how goes it?
you asked
Gran tanned
my backside yesterday

for going
on the bomb site
when she had told me
not to

Janice said
sorry I got
you into trouble
you said

not your fault
I’m responsible
for my own actions
she said

I knew Gran
had told me
not to go
but I chose

to disobey
so paid the price
guess she's annoyed
with me too

you said
I didn't say
who was with me
she said

how did she find out ?
a neighbour saw me
and told her
I was on a bomb site

with other kids
and that was it
where you going?
you asked

got to buy
some cereals
for breakfast
she said
going to Baldly's groceries

but not to get any
with those
free toys inside
why's that?

Gran said it's a gimmick
how about going
to the cinema
this afternoon?

you asked
can't
she said
not allowed

after yesterday
she said
shame
you said

got a good western on
and the good guy
has two guns
and has a neat way

of going for his guns
which I want to copy
and practice
she looked sad

I'd liked to
she said
but maybe
another time

when I'm out
of the dog house
sorry
about the trouble

I've landed you in
you said
my fault
mea culpa

as they say
in mass
mea culpa ?
you said

it means my fault
in Latin
she said
I got my backside tanned

once for peeing
in my toy box
you said
she looked shocked

peed in your toy box?
yes I was trying
to impress a cousin
but he told on me

and that was it
I never told
on you yesterday
she said

thank you
you said
she kissed your cheek
best get on

with the shopping
she said
ok
you said

and so she went
in Baldy's with you
and did the shopping
and afterwards

you walked back
your separate ways
after a few words of farewell
and a wave of hands

hoping to see her
again sometime
after her punishment
for the petty crime.

Well we jumped on the wing
for a good Irish fling
kicked off the week
with a boiler

The banter was high
as we took to the sky
nothing in sight
was a spoiler

And the red eye at night
was a captain’s delight
we spread on the seat
of the liner

Arrived just in time
for a whale of a time
at the Temple Bar
and Diner

Well the Dublin scene
in the Old College Green
was wired and alive
on the corner

Where me and me' mates
paired in at the gates
there were welcoming arms
to us foreigners

And we sang through the night
and grinned in delight
with banjos, pipes
and lasses

Drinking whiskey and beer
in a boatload of cheer
the rooster got lost
in the masses

The **** in the walk
was out on the stalk
a wee little flute
on display

His shoulders were pinned
with a great big grin
they were such
peculiar ways!

Well we found em next day
(in a sauntering way)
got tossed in
all the commotion

What happened to you?
said he hadn’t a clue
or any
baldy notion!

Hit the road to Howth
little east, little south
the seaside town
was groovin

Found the Cobblestone Pub
for a jar and a scrub
the seabird sounds
were soothin

Then we jumped a train
in the lashing rain
the Belfast craic
was mighty

Hit the Thirsty Goat
with a parching throat
some Tullamore Dew
for a nighty

In the Crumlin jail
the spirits set sail
the IRA
was gaffin

There was Bobby Sands
in celestial lands
alive and proud
and laughin

The Griffin dance
was the final chance
the evening closed
in nigh

And we made our way
through the Chelsea lanes
to say our
final good bye

~ ~ ~ ~

Singing
Ay, oh…let it all go
safe haven in the wasteland!

Singing
Slainte’…take me away
to the old Irish sounds
of the band!

i'm going for a new style, i've been with these
metal origins for ages, long hair post-hippy
crap for too long, too much shampoo and definitely
too much brushing, i finally realised the stink
of what long hair encompasses, high maintenance,
too much of it... doing the monk, grow a beard
keep it 1 millimetre away from a skinhead,
more places to scratch my head... but the other reason,
and i mean the other real reason...
there's an elephant in my brain and he's practising
the ivory section of the orchestra, quiet similar
to the trumpet and trombone, but not quiet like it,
i still remember high school, chubby kid
prior to the gcse prom, a summer spent with my
grandparents cycling like mad about 50 kilometres
in the polish countryside, eating grapes for supper,
by the time i came back, the trousers were too
big that i had to use suspenders (at a party this
fat guy was wearing them, suspenders didn't catch
on because it was Transatlantic english, he thought
i was talking stockings and high-heels...
annoying since the two can't work out that both
are ENGLISH and not french slang in Calais
when Henry the 8th still had it: brace... oh loop
de d'ah) at first and then tailored myself to a good suit...
suddenly i was thin, donning a french braid
and was the Johnny Depp for a day after Blow
came out, the younger girls asking shampoo i was using,
that exercise regime i had, and what kind of fruits
i was eating... but prior to that i was the chubby boy
with a knack for geek stuff... and this one memory
really sticks out, 16 at the time, art class, massive crush
on this girl, a rose one valentine and then i quickly
sketched hair in her youth looking into a mirror
with an old lady in the mirror... i don't know the motive,
but this same girl was... see i was born elsewhere
and she was born over there, and she didn't recognise
and biological connectivity between the two,
a fully integrated-assimilated soul... but the comment
was a fiery burn... hence me ageing and finally realising
i'm looking like less of a James Hetfield and more
like Immortan Joe... i can't remember having hair this
short (i'll include a picture)... but her comment was
about an ethnic signature regarding the cranium,
indeed it's true, but the self-identifier as such an ethnicity
only having acquired the use of the english language
as a lesser characteristic... she said something about
occipital bone being less protruding in slavic men:
a flatness on the back of the head... that got me, don't ask
me why, but the sheer sneer of her comment got me...
it's as if the lack of occipital protruding was some sort of
evolutionary defect, a meat-head syndrome the ugly cousin
of a skinhead... and as if a missing protrusion on
the coccyx was also degenerate - monkey on a tree,
monkey on parallel bars, monkey on a tree,
monkey on the high bar... monkey on a... you get the picture;
it's this strange analogy, there are absolutely no
benefits of a missing tail... well there are...
you remove the coccyx and you turn into a monkey
in a constrained space, a limited space, you get the
gymnastic on the floor flipping and hoping you're not
******* like a marathon runner after 20 miles...
but the evolutionary benefit of a retracted tail is only that,
fast runner of the monkey form, but not a cheetah,
compare the lynx... in monkey form you needed a tail
to travel, not do gymnastics... but that cranium comment
got to me... and i'm almost 30 now...
like watching this programme about Alzheimer's...
i've been practising deep sleep for a few years now...
sleeping pills don't work without alcohol (even though
mixing the two is "prohibited") and some sort of
paracetamol... i sleep for more than 8 hours...
deep sleep is the kind of sleep where you don't even
dream... because your brain is a sponge but not
a unconscious muscle, deep sleep cleans the synapses
or neurons or whatever... check out
BBC's Horizon take on it, great program...
what i mean about remembering such a particular
event from school is what i call selective memorisation,
when a chance opportunity comes in your life
you get to make a lot of choice: where to live, what job
to have... but you sometimes just can't make choice
in the realm of cognition, unless it be in the faculty
of memory or imagination (daydreaming) -
thinking is the only aspect of the brain that's related to
all the other organs in the body, after all the brain
isn't in some pickle jar along with ****** rats
bred and stored like pickles until they turn yellow
and are used by biology students to dissect... the brain's
muscle, it's automation is thinking, like a heart's
thump-thump-thump... whereas memory and imagination
are component of the mind's threshold with the soul.
and guess what... after being called big 'ed too
they didn't realise i won't go bald, it's in my genes,
my paternal grandfather died with lots of hair,
my father will die with lots of hair...
   and i'll shoe-shine those baldy neos with a laugh too.

Under the railway bridge
in Rockingham Street
where the steam trains
go by overhead

quite frequently
going to somewhere else
by Baldy's
the grocer's store

where you get merchandise
quite often
for your mother
you sat with Janice

waiting to have
your hair cut
(your mother sent her
with you

to make sure
it was done right)
she had her
red beret on

the fair hair
flowing from beneath
her bright eyes
and straight white teeth

when we marry
she said
(why do girls do that
to a kid of 8?

at 9 maybe
that's fine
why spoil his day
with wedding days

and such?)
shall I wear
cream or a white dress?
(cream would be better

than white
make her look
less pale
more quaint

make her look
less likely to faint)
cream'd be good
you said

and what about my bouquet?
what flowers
should I have?
(God knows

you mused
I know nothing
of such things
whatever

the flower guy brings)
I don't know
flower names
you choose

you said
she smiled
and nodded her head
who will be

your best man?
she asked
Carmody or Jupp​?
you said

she didn't
look impressed
or Jim?
you added

he'll do
she said
(why ask you?)
you liked the way

her eyes went wide
at the mention
of Jim
(did she fancy him?)

and the way she leaned
her head to one side
when you said
cream to the colour of dress

(to you
it was a thing
to keep from life
and head

it would seem
but to her
it was a dream)
but who

will give me away?
she said
my Daddy's dead
and mother too

would my old man do?
you said
but she shook her head
(wise kid you thought)

Gran may
if she's not too old
she added
looking straight ahead

or too ill or dead
my brother could
if he's old enough then
(many years hence

you hoped)
a boy amongst men
you said
she just smiled

and gave nod of head
and how many kids
shall we have?
she asked

(why ask me
you thought
how many there'd be?)
two or three?

you said
or more
she suggested
gazing at the barber

who was finishing off
a middle-aged man
with a comb and mirror
wearing a smile

who's next?
he asked
taking off the cape
from the man

he is
Janice said
pointing to you
and a short back

and sides
his mother said
Janice added
the barber nodded you

to the chair
and you sat there
gazing at Janice
in the mirror

imagining her
as a bride in white
or cream
on some one's arm

coming down the aisle
with her smile
but not tomorrow
or next year

or after that
but off
some where
in quite awhile.

i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie...
see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man
turning phonetics upside down
using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed
and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore,
footie can be american slang  for football: or ensure a bag of
flour explodes while i get scalped;
otherwise footie means football:
you know it's round enough to be kicked
rather than thrown for a touchdown...
never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means
as much to me as does excess of hair
on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard,
and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned
beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop...
baldy over here met elvis and in levis took
to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he
(mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond,
like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice
the musical... now the encore... signature the
sound of applause);
so this married man is rebelling...watches football
till midnight, rebel...
watches the footie...
a. foot, i.e.
b. foot, e
c. foot eeh
d. footy
e. foo' tea
f. foo' tee
                                 now you guess the accent...
cumbrian? glaswegian?
north london or brick lane?                  which?
a, b, c d or e or f?^
           see what happens being judgemental and sober?
you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good
not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms.
the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english
obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of
a ******* longbow stylistic for the v long
before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling...
about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now...
so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt
superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo:
or simply curl the famished tongues
that were silenced for man to speak in spasms
of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth
of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze,
if not snorkel or a gesundheit.
^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds
show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.

Mum says she can't
afford for me
to have a hula hoop
Helen says

as I meet her
by Baldy's shop
early Saturday morning
but I have had a go

on my friend's
not that I'm
very good at it
she says

but it would have been
good to have had my own
o come on
I say

it's a hoop of plastic
and you put it
around your waist
and do a wiggle

of your body
and it goes round
continuously around
your waist

if you're lucky
I say
that's nothing
to mope about

she stands
by the side
of the shop
looking up towards

the railway bridge
in Rockingham Street
but I did like
having a go

she mutters
I'd like to ride a horse
like the Lone Ranger
but I wouldn't want

to own a horse
I say
where'd I put it
if I did?

I'd love a horse
she says
white one
with a long

hairy tail
and she dreams
for a moment or two
about the horse

but you're right
she says
where to put it?
we walk down towards

the post office
to post a letter
of her father's
and then walk along

the Newington Causeway
what colour horse
would you like?
Helen asks

black shiny black
I say
she talks of her brother
dropping her doll

Battered Betty
and an arm
coming off
and how her dad

managed to
fix it again
but it was
back to front

and he had
to take it off
and put it
the right way around

and she's
at home resting
Helen says
resting after

the operation
and we come to
the New Kent Road
and walk along

to the Trocadero cinema
and pay out money
for the morning matinee
and we sit

half way back
ready to watch
the cartoon
and black and white

Batman film
then the big feature film
which I hope
won't be

a cowboy film
with kissing in it
which really
gets my goat

and Helen sits
next to me
waiting for the lights
to go out

still talking
about her doll
and the arm
and one eye

I watch the screen
not wanting to know.

i never write "anything"...
i'm claustrophobic when its comes to
exploring cognizance...

'wow! what a fancy word!'

i hardly beg to differ...
i hear of people fathoming the novel...
and...
i'm a monolith monstrosity...
some bourbon, some german:

ich bin gut zu gehen: ja!

spucke bourbon au zu mein gesicht!

i will never write a novel,
i deal with butchering an animal
for: ein stück von fleisch...

"a novel" und barockarchitektur:
sounds similar?

oh but it's a freel available tattoo
in the anglophonic frame of ref....
Hastings, 1066...
hard to come by when the tattoo reads...
ahem...

Tannenberg, 1410...
Vienna, 1683...

clear-cut... almost safe-net catch-em
while you can...
the Hastings folk were pagans...
don't you know?
don't you know that only white
people can be racist?

pst... ask the russians "about that"...
see what you come back with...
i will have to...
S'****** at the reply...
no... honestly: "because" it's forbidden for
us former iron curtain "roma" folk...
**** dastardly's dog: muttley... S'*******...
giggles in...
we former folk from the eisenvorhang...
coming across the californian:
siliziumvorhang?!
where are we... polacks...
hunagarians... czechs... estonians...
lithuanians... ukranians...
yugolz... at?!
we don't fit the narrative... do we?

it's the 27th of december...
and i'm "thinking"... it's mighty fine...
to celebrate something with the aestigermani!

the children of ***** sought a father...
the children of gomorrah were akin...
i do not know whether i am
a father figure or whether:
there's that pointless safety question
to mind: did i wear a ******?
i was assured! i was assured there were
contraceptive pills involved!

i'm tired on the usual steaming-heap
pile of warm ******* and ****
to give a psychoanalyst his rhetoric
elevated status of disinhibition...

cocktail! madonna's papa don't preach...
dusty springfield: son of a preacher man...
and any other formidable calypso
study of salsa... should this sugar baby
this sugar baby be my baby
and if i would never become a sugar daddy...

and because i was only ever looking
for the six oops-stones of womanhood...
infinity: eh... bag 'em one weekend...
forget 'em the next...

god... let me this one type of racist...
Jefferson keeping "green things" akin
to Zoe Saldana in some variation
of a "basement"...
i'm good with green...
use enough cumin, coriander or
cinnamon powder in your cooking...
you'll ask: what's wrong with green?
i'd **** green! i'd **** green sitting down
i'd **** green of the sort sleeping!
i'd peacock myself in many variations
of drunk to stage:
that one sober sort of **** with her
and... it's no samantha 38g and...
classics come to mind...
homer, horace... and plump models
of: extra cushions!

ha ha... i make myself laugh:
i make myself laugh because:
there's about zeo chance of me...
conjuring up a novel ambition...
me and a novel...
a "supposed" schizoid and a novel...
ha ha! Noel! Noel!

there was a time where i grew a beard for a reason:
i.e. exercise less..
grow a beard, hide the pride of a walrus
minus the harem...
double chin and the...
Zoe Saldana in green skin...
octopus fucky-fucky or what?

- never mind -

grow a beard... hide the shar pei...
i figured over time...
my beard became a giza pyramid
focus of my eyes...
it took some persuasion...
namely 4 years and my grandmother
finally pointing out:
oh look how thick it is...
she wanted to play g.i. joe with...
prior to: my hair...
like some thor meets barbier universe
dolls extravaganza...
a hard-on waiting...
with an ava lauren limp twist...

"oops".

now the beard is all about...
being 34 years old... while donning
the *** leftover skivvy look
inflating the organic body for a media
frenzy to "compenstate" it to be aged:
49!
ha ha...
i keep forgetting why i'm in such a good mood!
today is today! and i'm...
and i'm not allowing myself to succumb
to an anglophonic seriousness
of staging an elvis costello seriousness
of: everyday writing the novel...

pst: sounds better than that obvious...
"nook 'n' cranny"...

my alternatives!
minnesang - neidhart:
meie din liechter schin!

weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt:
lassen uns singen!
lassen uns geben loben!
lassen uns männer verlassen
der mutterleib!

ensemble für frühe musik augsburg -
mayenzeit one neidt...

jetzt kommen der lieder:
zu gesungen! für alle das jahr!

i guess i grew a beard to hide a shar pei...
then again:
perhaps i grew a beard to pretend to
fiddle with a throng of violins?
perhaps i found growing my hair long...
i had to compensate!
i had to exfoliate in the downward
spiral and exchange...
oi! baldy! baldy!
i can juggle! i can juggle!
i can grow long hair and a beard!

but never the two at the same time!
germany and the nazis...
i just can't stiop thinking about
the lucky... those frivolous drunks
of the holy roman empire...
esp. when peering via their folk songs...
i call it: having to succumb to
english prune and pristine pressures...
even these days...
being wholy saxon is to be:
most unwholesome when it comes
to the german federation...

it's called cheating:
eatin saxon white soy
and not... riddling oneself
with Bavarian rye!

i'm drunk! it's the 27th of december!
the little ******* is born!
now i can celebrate!
chevalier, mult estes guariz!
on the 27th of december i can sing
german, and french crusader songs!

on the 27th of december i can celebrate!
nothing has to be left so innocent
and passive! so coddled!
and if they weren't singing byzantine
chants... prior to this day?!
let them sing no more!
i have found my happiness! once more!

Ö dies freude!
jetzt ich können: singen!
einst die kinder und engel...
ar legen zu bett!

if i am to be the integrated kind...
now i rejoice!
for i have all the reasons to rejoice!
i do no have to pander
to a babe!
i do not have to force myself
into elevated expectations with
a pre- litany of the omni- suitor...

now i can champion the romance
of the crusade...
i am... freed from the utopia...
that only one heart is allowed
to feel... and its feeling is to be contested...
solely by the sacrifice of a crucifixion...
not by iron maiden outlets "etc."...

now muttererde...
ihr liebhaber: wind - seine unterschrift!
weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt!

it's the 27th of december and i can finally
celebrate with songs...
that... celebrate the sort of christianity
i am accustomed to...
french crusader songs...
german folk...
that i can stomach...
not this... pandering...
expecting the nuns to not...
somehow, not, become...
the ****** of the christ-harem!
a nun is a nun is a nun is a nun...
is a nun...
but i very much like...
being considered...
for... the better part of the feminine whim,
outside the realm of:
the usual rejection tactics of:
the aborted... i like my exercise of yielding:
DAS WORTE... ooh... chisel that
with a base goosebump strut to be worth
being added!

em... it's almost like that...
time-travel question of:
why not travel back in time...
and **** the baby adolf ******...
dunno... no point doing that with a jesus...
since... m'eh... his cross is our
genuflexion... yes: kind sir...
yes mr. greek and mrs. hebrew...
esp. in this script...
esp. when its alive and "we" debate...
the pronunciation of:

nil admirari prope res est una, Numici,
solaque, quae possit facere et servare beatum...
hunc solem et stellas et decedentia certis
tempora momentis sunt qui formidine nulla
inbuti spectent: quid censes munera terrae,
quid maris extremos arabas ditantis et indos
ludicra, quid plausus et amici dona quiritis,
quo spectanda modo, quo sensu credis et ore?

there's nothing to be surprised by, Numicious,
in this life's mainstay, peace of soul and happiness;
others, onto the sun, the stars, azure bodies...
on the round year of orbital changes, look with
a calm... and you would, upon the gifts of earth,
pearls of the sea, what of the distant Arabs,
Indians beyond the Arabs,
on the Kwiritow (googlewhack...)
Quiritus' honours, questionable plaudit: peer
raptured in awe without measure?

a very ******* bad a very ******* terrible
translation... as you do...
as you do... sinking into bourbon...
thinking about... maritza mendez...
sylvia loret... samantha 38G...
and all those lost plump classics of *****...

i would have sunk the Potemkin!
drunk... i wouldn't even require
a sober catch / scrutiny of "character"...
because now i am yet to translate
some latin, use this... ahem...
pseudo-cuneiform text:
"LATINE QUOD MORTUS EST"

perhaps that's mis-translated as:
qua: i.e. "as being"...
perhaps MIT... some runic...
or glagolitic... we AWAIT: the revival!
of the grand h'american protestant church
of apocalyptic wonder!
maybe, perhaps... "then"!

but it's the 27th of december...
the... "messiah" is born!
now we can reroute and go back to our...
current year... ***** and gomorrah type
of *******...
the cosmopolitan whoop-t'd'ah is 'ere!
come easter, come spring....
come the crucifixion! come the resurrection!

Fay's crying
by the pub

I see her
on my way
to Baldy's
for shopping
for Mother

she's pretty
standing there
in the blue
cotton dress

so what's up?
I ask her

she looks down
towards home
the tall flats

my dad's mad
and angry
and punished
me just now

why was that?

because I
got the names
of our Lord's
apostles
incorrect

O big deal
I don't know
the guys' names
I tell her

she sniffles
wipes her eyes
looks at me

but I should
she tells me
I’m Catholic
and the nuns
teach us things

nuns and buns
I tell her
forget that
Saturday
is for fun

Dad told me
to learn them
she mutters
she sniffles
her eyes red
I’m done for
if I don't

we'll learn them
together
I tell her

so we go
to my place

my mother
gets us drinks
and biscuits
and brings us
a Bible
an old one
black covered
red edges

Fay sits there
next to me
on the brown
wide sofa
cold leather
with cushions

her fingers
turn pages
here's the page
she utters

I watch her
her finger
very slim
run through names

I nibble
a Rich Tea

she recites
a few names
in order
we repeat
and repeat
till they stick
in our brains

she nibbles
Custard Creams

I drink tea
then more names
repeated
repeated
like a game
name on name
Peter john
James Andrew
and others
and others

I nibble
Ginger Nuts

she nibbles
a Rich Tea

got them now?
I ask her

I think so
I hope so
she utters

she shows me
her red thigh
her old man's
hand mark there

I know them
she tells me

we both do
I tell her

we sip tea
in silence

nearly time
for the kid's
cinema
I tell her
can you come?

don't think so
Daddy says
it's sinful
to watch films
of violence
and kissing
and killing

she looks sad
nibbling
a Rich Tea
her red eyes
searching me.

I was in a red phone booth
in Rockingham Street
looking for coins left behind
in the little cups
in the phone machine

my old man knocked
on the glass window
of the booth

I looked at him standing there
his deep set eyes
his Errol Flynn moustache
I came out of the booth
and let the door shut
behind me

what are you
doing in there?
he asked

looking for coins
left behind
I said

were there any?

no none at all

he nodded
and looked in the booth
shame
sometimes punters do
he said

I looked at him
he had a hollow look
about him
sunken cheeks

just as well
it was me
and not your mother
who saw you in there
he said

yes guess so
I said

well got to go to work
he said
how about
going to see a film
this weekend?

sure be good
I said

John Wayne film

cowboy film?

no war movie
Pork Chop Hill
I think it's called
he said

ok be good
I said

he nodded and left
I watched him go
and out of sight

I opened my hand
and looked at the coins
I found in the cup
of the phone machine

I pocketed them
and walked to Baldy's shop
and bought
some bubblegum
and a drink of pop
and walked back to the flat

I ought to have shown
my old man the coins
but I didn't
and that was that.

Thought you weren't
going to come
Helen said
she stood by Baldy's

grocer shop
her thick lens glasses
were smeared
by recent rain

her plaited hair matted
had chores to do
at home
you said

you looked at the sky
guess you got caught
in the last downfall
you said

she nodded
brushing raindrops
off her green raincoat
with her small hands

then wiped
her smeary glasses
with damp fingers
where are we going?

she asked
you looked at her
standing there
her wet features

and clothes
raindrops falling
from her nose
best go back

to your place
to get out
of your wet clothes
you said

don't matter
she said
it does
you said

you'll catch a death
she looked at you
I’ll dry
she said

no
you said
best go home
your mother

will let you changed
out of the wet things
while I wait
she pulled a face

OK
she said
so you both walked back
to her place

she talked
of her mother's
chesty cough
and you talked

of the silver looking
6 shooter
your old man
picked up

at some junk shop
once you got
to her home
her mother moaned

but let her changed
out of the wet clothes  
and said to you
want a cuppa?

sure
you said
and so she poured you
a mug of tea

and a biscuit
and after while
she ironed some clothes
she asked about

your mother and her legs
and if
they were any better
no

you said
they' re just as bad
the tea was sweet
and milky

but you drank it
and nibbled the biscuit
and watched her iron
her plump hands

at work
her huge bust
swaying
to her motion

then Helen
came into the room
in dry clothes
her hair unplaited

and hanging
in long strands
you look
like a drowned rat

her mother said
I should wait here
if I were you
until the rain stops

Helen looked at you
then at her mother
ok
she said

I can show Benedict
my doll collection
you smiled
it could be worse

you thought
drinking your sweet tea
worse things
could happen to me.

She writes her text
Full of love
To her lover
Few emoji to be catalyst to her heavenly love text
Wish she saw her man then

On his 14th cup
He held the baldy girl as trophy
Never to answerr the text
"Goodnight i love you, am sick"he replied

There above his shiny baldy head,
a long and winding comb-over,
is it white, orange or red?

A cap is perched with Krazy Glue
to keep it in its place,
or is it there to keep his head
from floating into space?

He spews blither blather
and trumpets nonsense
to wild applause
and cheer

at a raucous party
where tea is spiked
with fear

samsonian hair litters the ground
the man I married looks
different shorn
like a raggedy sheepman
all naked and forlorn
head all baldy and bumpy
his curly locks
carefully sealed into a bag

i truly must have had one of those, very, very memorable nights, that i somehow also want to forget, so implant myself with false memories, oh, i've seen this done in a clinical environment, in psychiatry: it's called regression - a psychiatrist will call you up, he or she might have a handy student overseeing the "interview"... then he / she might insert a sort of: on the whim / "by the way" a speaking out-loud, referring to you in third person... e.g. oh... he was abused as a child... again.. to reiterate, today i woke up thinking i was screaming into the deafness of the night, not screaming via de profundis... more like... vitriol energy screaming: you ******* idiots! but i have proof... a nice, plum of an eye-sore... no mascara could do it justice... so it must've been a decent drinking session... my father just asked me... who gave you that LIMO... slang in ****** for a black-eye... LI-MO... thrill! i can find that in katakana: look at me go! ****... on L in Japanese... no trilling of the R either... WONG, WONG WONG.... let's see...  ha ha... oh but there is... you just have to be a rat, scuttle around the "palace" for a while... リ゜
                       モ
so when asked: who gave you the black-eye? i replied...
i was having issues with my shadow, who else?
i was punching myself in the head so hard, hey presto!
plum! ha ha...i always blame the shadow, we're always wrestling, no drinking session without a proper, fighting antagonism, the day  my shadow stops punching me, i, imagine, is the day some woman will come round and: ha ha... "kiss it all better"... for the time being... i like punching myself, i like... putting out cigarettes on my knuckles... masochistic little art of pseudo-algebra: X here, XXXX in total... it's always a good drinking session when i loose control, it usually happens when something is infuse... some minor biopic concerning Ted Bundy will do it... the erotica: YA-WN... i'm still trying to get paid... capitalism: sure... for some... i'm waiting... if they only pay me, properly... self-employed or PAYE (pay as you earn)... no one has bothered to clarify this with me... capitalism for some... i'll work, **** it... but the idea of bungee-jumping from some high building... no... not too alien... i can stomach the gravity, the thrill... i know that upon impact i'll meet sigma... alias of soul... my body's rent to begin with... no worries... i think i punched myself in the face since tomorrow i'm doing a stewarding shift up in Oxford... **** know's who's playing... i just want the supervisors to see my face... my whittle plum sore... if asked obviously i won't be telling them: i had an argument with my shadow... got in a fight, in a pub, self-defence... blah blah... oh no no... this metaphysical paradise belongs to me, to me: alone!
i almost feel terrible drinking this litre of bourbon,
you can't get better bourbon than ol' Jacky-boy'oh...
every time i open a bottle of bourbon
i'm reminded of the sort of perfumery you'd
most associate with a brothel -
bourbon scents = brothel scents...
bourbon is most certainly better than whiskey...
wait... no it's not...
bourbon is sweet whiskey...
i'm not much of a Laphroaig sort of guy...
come to think of it: on the spot...
i'd prefer a smoky whiskey... a Scotch whiskey
than this... sickly sweet bourbon...
perhaps i shouldn't have done
the no. 1, 2 & 3 (****, ****, *******)
& the no. 4 (the "baptism") prior...
sometimes you start drinking & absolutely nothing
feels right... i think my socks are stinking...
pregnant woman sensitivity to scents,
to tastes? do i really want to eat some cappers
or some gherkins to reach a counter balance
to this... sweetness...
i still haven't checked my newly set up bank
account regarding whether i've been paid
for my stewarding at stadiums...
o.k., o.k., think about going to the brothel...
let me just hope
i can sooth my disgruntled little self
with some decent d.i.y. music choices...
               or... if i get enough in... it really will
not matter what i'll be drinking by the end
of it...
Laphroaig... well... it's a bit like Marmite...
you either love it, or hate it...
i'm undecided... like i'm undecided about
bourbon... any other day i'd be loving it...
today... i'm undecided...
  perhaps i'm just used to drinking cheap whiskey,
cheap generic stuff...
i elevate the drinking experience by romancing
it: fraulein bernstein (ms. amber)
& mr. whiskers... etc.

- it really just takes a cigarette break & looking up
at the night sky... oi! baldy! where's that
old ******! never mind, but a night sky without
the moon is always an ugly night...
now i know what's up...

why did i watch no man of god today?
i had company when watching this movie...
but... how many more, how many more *******
movies about Ted Bundy? sure...
the movie was more about the FBI profiler
Bill Hagmaier... but still...
do we really need yet another movie about
Ted Bundy?! o.k. i know a little...
his mother had him out of wedlock,
he was raised on a lie: his mother was his "sister"
while his grandmother was his "mother"...
i dated a Russian girl for a while...
when i met the goons, sorry, her family...
way back in 2007... in St. Petersburg...
i was given the Ted Bundy introduction...
her mother was her sister...
her grandmother was her mother...
         what a freak of a woman: great ****...
tattoos and piercings...
she did this one number on me...
all scabs on her lips...
imitating the singer from hed(pe)...
wait... i'll look him up... jared gnome-head...
no offense: jared gomes...
all scabby... i implored her... take them out...
i implored her... cut those ******* dreads...
she complied to the point of...
proposing to me... she even chose
the ******* engagement ring...
she wanted me to get a tattoo... i refused...
even though she was this upstart tattoo artist
in the making...
she wanted me to get dreadlocks:
again... i refused...
thank **** that i disappeared from Edinburgh
and headed back down to London...
Ilona: thank you for introducing me to
BULGAKOV... i really enjoyed that book...
esp. reading parts of if
on my wait from St. Petersburg through
to London with a stay at Warsaw...
eh... as much as i love Dostoyevsky...
how he belittles Polacks every time he gets...
not to my taste...

2007... a pivotal year...
to cite Jung from the Answer to Job...
perhaps there are some female readers
in my audience, perhaps the Zodiac is to be minded...
this quote...
Luciferi vires accendit Aquarius acres -
Aquarius sets aflame Lucifer's harsh forces...

a lot has happened since... 2007... don't you think?
oh, look-look... she was an Aquarius,
i am still a Taurus... but that break-up...
my god... what a harsh trip...
i remember walking up to her apartment armed
with a guitar... about to play her a serenade...
REJECTED: ha ha...
pushed back by her ex-boyfriend she was
******* and her ex-boyfriend's friend...
a Russian... ha ha... oddly enough:
called: GERMAN...

it's so almost yesterday... i can sigh a sort of relief
from this memory...
it's good to remember...
i never sought out that quality of forgetfulness...
i want to remember... i cherish memory
above thought... it's theatre...
i want to... remember... select...
what... i want to remember...
so that it can have a recurrent presence in my mind
like... that drill "sergeant" of
pedagogy that instilled 2 + 2 = 4 into me...
the ******* alphabet...

now i know why i have this bad taste
in my mouth from drinking bourbon...
it's not that i'm drinking bourbon...
i love bourbon...
when the Scots took the smoky route...
the Irish took the mellow route...
arriving at bourbon years later:
and on a different continent...
                                     do, i, look, bothered?!
i hope i do: i (might) also hope that you might
"think" i do... but... you're not, you don't
(seem to be)...
so? back to sq. 1: 'ere we go...

mighty fun playing the ******* or are least
pretending to be one...
akin to... pseudo Jack Nicholson
in that cameo role of his as
enrolled by: actor playing actor playing
an actor: Keith Allen...
Bodies... Dr. Tony Whitman...

me, you...Joseph Roth &
the doppelgänger, right & "who" else?!

now i know... that cigarette break really helped...
the bad taste in my mouth...
of course! i must be drinking h'american liquor...
i knew something was up...
couple h'american liquor with watching
no man of god i.e.
not another Ted Bundy flick... o.k.
women are attracted to psychopaths...
wannabe cannibals... fair, *******: enough...

black culture is superior to white culture...
sure... white people are ******* gagging
to incorporate it...
inter-sectionality always existed within
the confines of religion: religion was
always post-modernist... given the current trend
of "thinking": it always... incorporated
outside influences to create a cohesive:
snowball effect... what's ******* new?
discovering the continent of America in a tin
of ******* sardines?!

there's no tree, there's no dog barking...
you're just asking for a a wrong type of a mental
gymnast to make some, weirdly allocated,
point, of ref....
i'm not doing it... god help anyone...
no... not even the ******* devil would get into
this much... anti-fascinating sort of "juice"...
i wouldn't...

o.k. now i know...
i was drinking this most, bountiful of a fully-bodied
red wine yesterday...
a south african 2020 shiraz...
by the name of arabella (name sounds familiar...
an arctic monkey's song?!)
origin: western cape...

i think i must have mentioned
smoky whiskey vs. bourbon...
well... this glass of red was so good...
i had to breathe some nicotine smoke
into the glass... let's go... full out theatrical
on this: "blood"...

to reiterate... why so many movies about Ted Bundy?!
modern ******* is so...
******* ugly... even in the brothel i would never
want to **** women like the women ******
in *******... ****?! come on...
******* with the addition of choking?!

as a child i had a categorical dislike for liver,
pork liver... semi-goulash
with onions... with the addition of mash
& gherkins... or pickled beetroots...
this sort of material, this sort of ***...
puts me off...
i scratch my head and think:
Abel... because H'america was built on
the CULT of CAIN... their fascination
their celebration of serial killers...

prior to mentioned...
America is a CULT OF CAIN...
i'm with the Iranians on this...
     three names congregate...
Kurt Cobain... shot himself in the head using
a shotgun... sure... that's one way to go...
but... shooting yourself in the head...
doesn't simply "solve" the matter...
recall...
   Chrstine Chubbuck *** Adndrei Chikatilo...
bullet to the head...
for both...
a quote from Bane... a Batman fictional character:
perhaps he's wondering:
why someone might throw a man...
out of a plane... before shooting him in the head?!
why would you shoot someone
in the head... in an empty prison cell?!
if you were not expecting them to rot?!
best explored with the added tenderness added
to the attempted suicide attempt of the incel
that Ms. Chubbuck became?

why not make more movies about
the Zodiac killer... anyone?!
oh, sure... here's me readied to ******* to little
Wisconsin... or... **** knows where!

i was having some d.i.y. d.j. issues...
thought experiments... undogmatic & kernfeld...
"issues": yeah, i couldn't remember the song's name...
no, wait, the artists...

last came... the origins of the niqab hebrew
vowels...
the: hmm...
come to think of it... there's more...
such is the nature of hidden things...

Adam Kadmon [tetragrammaton(s)] apex...
Atzilut (nearness)
Beriyah (creation)
Yetzirah (formation)
Asiyah (making)...

vowels like diacritical markers...
caron, tail... umlaut...
well... for the Hebrews...
   A - kametz...
    E - tzere -
    I - chirek
   O - cholem
   U - Kibbutz... some others... i will miss...

the study of vowels, though...
since they are hidden...
the entire concepts of vowels in Hebrew...
the niqqud...
i ask... looking down at the chiromancy...
of, my... right, hand...
did not the vowels arrive in "our" consciousness
via the Sefirot root / branch of...
the Malkhut?!

    Adonoy... you know... when the current people
perform *** & it's so ******* off-putting:
primarily because... they talk...
during *******...
&... i don't want to be talking during ***:
why invoke / invite "god"?!
they can't... Niqqut / Malkhut the deed...
o.k.... not that i'm ******...
just... mildly annoyed...

      you don't need to **** & speak at the same
******* ****'s sake time!

Europe... some weird ******* funnel for
the world to congregate around...
white women... white women and their *******
sado-masochism...
the cult of cain in america...
white women and their afro-****-boys...
cry wolf while i go around arming myself
with Thai surprises& Turkish delights...

i oust my shadow from my presence
with a few drop-dead plums in search for "light"...
imagine me punching a woman silly to
later reason wth me...
oh... but no one is going to say anything about
me punching myself silly "SOY"..
been my: bean my baby?!

      now' the time i hark, now's the time i bark...
now's the time i fill the night with a stomach's
worth of...              GRUNT..
indigestion...

       die stücke, bewegen sich!
schach, ja?! nein?
                       was ist die alternative?!
hund?! leine?!

The sun's out
and we sit
on some stones

or old bricks
left standing
from bombed out

old houses
on bomb sites
on the right

going up
Meadow Row
I'm sitting

sharpening
my penknife
on a stone

Ingrid sits
watching me
or passed me

at coal men
loading trucks
with black sacks

with black coal
I spit phlegm
on the stone

and sharpen
the knife blade
my uncle

shows me things
Ingrid says
things he's made

out of wood
are they good?
I think so

and he said
he'll show me
to make things

at his place
I put down
the blunt stone

and fold up
the sharp knife
and will you?

I ask her
gazing at
her pale face

with slightly
protruding teeth
I don't know

she replies
this uncle
is he that

one you said
that does things
secret things?

she looks off
looks past me
at bombed out

house ruins
and blushes
nods her head

don't go there
not alone
I tell her

mustn't tell
she whispers
I won't go

on my own
I promise
she tells me

we get up
and walk off
the bomb site

off to get
2 lollies
at Baldy's

grocer's shop
and maybe
4 Blackjacks

sticky sweets
1 farthing
for each one

hot sunshine
bright blue sky
big hot sun.

John the painter
Stopped by today

A delightful asian man
I would say

He told me about a hike
He had just been on

I told him about Mt. Baldy
I hope he enjoys it there

He offered his hand
And I shook hands
With him

Try to Remember
Remember your fellow man
I do

They are mostly all
Just like you
Just trying to live
A good moral life
And make it through

And I try to show love
To people I meet

Whether in the marketplace
Or on the street

God bless you John my friend
Enjoy the mountains, as I do

When the sun rises, when the sun sets;
When the moon is full, when the sky is empty,
I think of you.
When I cross Eagle River or climb Mt. Baldy,
the sun splintering into pieces above the world,
I think of you.
I think of you in Germany or Alaska,
with friends or alone,
when happy or sad;
I miss you all the same.
One year, two years, three years...
Nothing and everything's changed.

Life is long.
Forgetting feels like a betrayal.

fake news or no news,
yetis or
                    drunk eskimos
loosening a ****
                   on a trampoline...
whatever,
                   one fact is certain:
male sparrows,
                and mallards?
blush *******.
                     hands down
i honestly can only
drink... what's tha'....
less VAT and more F...
     vvvvv'aha...
v'ah thought?
   - bran...
      brand...
           BRADLY!
   caught a sober sailor:
straight, no ice...
and i somehow received
a castration notice minding
these two bird species,
which exfoliated in:
dull dumb hay-coloured
female...
   my my...
the males are ripe for
a military procession,
and a unanimous yell
akin to the modern russians...
slightly the gay hurrah,
and more mother Ural
citing:               itself...
       sparrow males
and mallards...
          cut those ballsies
off an i'll crown
myself the last prince
of a Bahrain harem...
to appease shamrock
sheikh baldy...
              start
   flustered over a well
salivated paper aero-experiment
hitting slam-dunk
shamrock rap...
       eh... the usual...
        hand only comes
in second to exploring
the ****...
          kissing prostitutes
is apparently equivalent
to stalling on: blah...
        blush *******
though...
     in vivo memoriae mors:
in life, the memory of death,
guess death has
to revive owning up
             to a bit of life...
imagination i can agree
dies, utterly...
        but memory?
    hard to **** off memory...
thinking can die the easy
death of mishearing
   the term: future...
   but memory?
            blush *******,
the male examples of
sparrow and those
english pub ducks and
bulldog card game subjects
of depiction...
     no... i'm pretty sure
a ****** wouldn't
   be composed with
      imagining a scenario
for death being
        stanced as: panicky...
problem with
perfecting a deviance...
         becauae...
this mea culpa
      *******-shaving
mantra?
                 it's...
   kinda... itchy...
   irritating...
                status quo
     fizzy, or rather:
  boiling under the radar...
          mea culpa mea culpa
mea culpa...
                to have been born
into this sort of masochism?
       counter arguments:
     heading into a cul de sac...
like the genesis of
cognition
   with an chimp scratching
its cranium...
         nice to know
the fungus brigade
having two pence worth
                of argument
to imply:
         infested, long lost
limb,
replaced with a pickled
fungus stump,
or the "hallucination"
   of a brain and spine
            in a bio-broth...
   hell, if it's safe to say that
god-head-fungus spoke
through me...
           photosynthesis
edibles are...
                  what was the point?
a ******* mushroom
conspiracy?!
              blush *******...
those male green 'ed
ducks, and notably
the in-reverse
   niqab slit male sparrows...
   blush *****...
               you almost
want them to become stuffed
mantles...
      if only not compensated
by the jittering
movements...
   the irony of being
able to float, like a bumber-sticker
with an annoying
relief for body in ushering
out a quack... like some sort
of a squeezed *******
revealing a:
                     HA-to-Q-to-mmm...
and you'll never know
visting a *******,
given the nearing a week-old
        "moral" hangover...
trigger-happy-itch though?
      don't know that
                   'un either...
           a 2 year celibacy spree?
no wonder i'm disorientated...
i attempted the same
results from cutting up
raw beef into a culinary
party-of-one in the guise
of a tartare;
             oh god, it can't be minced
beef...
            nearing sushi...
popcorn sushi -
        edible bits,
             simulating cartilage treats!
kaleidoscope of torn
                   into sinew lisps;
and it doesn't even bother
me eating poached chicken...
  given the precursor
of broth...
                   notably with
pregnant-pouch-soft
    delicacy of certain
vegetables...
  notably a leak,
   an onion or a garlic tooth...
i'll admit though:
nothing beats
oven "hibernated"
poultry skin...
   and cartilage... of any sort.