gray and blue and black
make up the angles and cheekbones
of you.
you're a painting with a film of dust
and i'm an attic that welcomes rust
broken windows, ripped screens
nests that house the emptiness of centuries,
and dolls that no longer have the mechanics to blink.
i guess you could form the conclusion
that i am a heap of broken things
floating inside a dead room
and you are a picture in a frame
that lives in shadows
etched in the silver starlight
of regrettable shame.

Your car came through town
a queen on her chair
with a silver spider web
smashed windscreen
and no door
on a scrap truck.

I didn't call you.

Told you in the pub last night
it was none of my business now
if you died or not.

Did I kiss that boy on the stairs?
I can feel myself falling in love already.

I stole prosecco off the kitchen counter,
drank the whole bottle.
It fizzed like stars and hopes and dreams
in my belly and
I started walking when the sun came up.

Christmas
as usual, buttered
with senescent conversations
this year fizzed with a citrus dialogue
of scrunched ears, hot water bottle hugs
and altogether too much hair
on the smallest head

Several moons before
when we were still strangers
under the darkest veil of the velvet curtain
we lay dormant beside each other
whispering words of white wash
under the cover of a deceiving peace
waiting for the next shell shock.

Dizziness would rise
quickly in as the water in the brain
fizzed like soda
bursting into effervescent bubbles
lining oozing cracks
smelling like petroleum.

And then we'd rise
from our self-made graves
sprinting across no-man's land
leaping over the gorge of death
playing with the volcanoes below
and dancing snipers.

Juggling that we'd be able to
sweep through the next jungle
burn its corpses
gorge on its juices
dismembering the world

and in its infanticide the clouds
would wail in their wake
spitting contempt on our rejoicing backs
while we danced our hollow victory
and onto the coming thunders.

Days and days passed and here we are
lying in graves dug for others
watching the star trails as they pass us by
oblivious in all eternity.

"Go to sleep," said Yohaan to Ishaan
Who was busy doodling on his wall.
"But Dada," began Ishaan,
"I am doodling a tale so tall.

"I know you always tell me stories
Before I go to sleep.
But, my dear brother, it is my turn now,
To make you plunge in imagination so deep."

Yohaan looked into Ishaan's eyes.
They were big and dark and round,
Sparkling in the lamplight atop the drawer
And the innovation swirling around.

He remembered the nights when
Young Ishaan sat wide-eyed listening to stories from his lips
Gripping his pillow and burying his head on blankets in laughter.
Now the worlds of yore fizzed from his fingertips.

"Achha," Yohaan sighed. "Make it fast, haa?"

The Church in its awesome majesty
Looked down, from over the hill,
From faith, to hope, to travesty
It stood, and is standing still,
So proud in its fine regalia
Its ritual, and never the least,
Its potent God who would wield his rod
Deter the jaws of the beast.

The Bishop of Saint Ignatius Church
Was a proud and holy man,
Who wouldn’t suffer the jibes of fools
From Rome to Afghanistan,
And certainly not those down the hill
In the new Masonic Lodge,
That beastly, secret doctrine that
He advised his flock to dodge.

He’d stand at the steps of his church and stare
Down at the barbarians,
He hated Lodges, he hated Mosques
And Rastafarians,
‘There shouldn’t be anyone else but me,
I hold the eternal God,
What gods they worship could never be,
For they’re all distinctly odd.’

While down at the Lodge of the Masons
They were cool with their golden rule,
They had to believe in a god as such,
But how, it was up to you.
For some would practice the Baptist faith,
And some Presbyterian,
While some enrolled in the Primitive state
Were a type of Wesleyan.

There was only a single Catholic
And he wore a glued on rug,
He wanted to still be young at heart,
Was known as the Grand HumBug,
The Antidiluvian Mason’s Guild
Was the name he’d chosen himself,
The others differed, but he was keen,
And he was the one with wealth.

Their God was known as the Architect,
They carried the masons tools,
The set square set them apart from all
The disbelievers and fools.
They worked on their secret rituals
And kept a goat at the back,
For leading a blindfold novice in
And guarding the Lodge from attack.

The Bishop heard that a Catholic
Was leading the Masons there,
He fumed, choked on his rhetoric, but
Was heard to firmly declare,
‘I will not shelter a wayward sheep
Who has taken to ways I hate,
The only fate for a traitor here
Is to excommunicate!’

He gathered a dozen priests to march
With candles, down to the Hall,
Surrounded the base heretic’s Lodge
And named HumBug in his call,
Sprinkled his holy water ‘til
It fizzed, and gave off a smell,
Doused his candle and closed his book,
Consigning the man to Hell!

But Humbug patted his glued on rug
Went out, untethered the goat,
He let it loose on the dozen Priests,
It butted the Bishop’s coat,
They ran in confusion up the street,
To the church, set up on the hill,
While the goat was hard at the Bishop’s heels
Like a demon released from Hell.

It butted the Bishop’s altar and
It charged, knocked over the font,
Scattered the pews for the devil’s dues
In a hellfire sacrament,
While HumBug muttered he might end up
In Hell, with his Mason’s sect,
But the Bishop’s God, had failed with his rod
In a clash with his Architect!

David Lewis Paget

Sometimes I want to shake your head from your shoulders
Try to dislodge the barbed twists of your perverse thinking
And the ideas spearing through your tissues
Like whaling harpoons that hooked their many heads deep
Latching and Leaching

Because you might have ****** your packet of Love Hearts a little too hard
Until it crumbled and fizzed in desperate ecstasy on your tongue
And the rest in the tube read MISS ME
Whenever you asked

But you are not Isolde,
Capulet, Karenina or Earnshaw
And as much as you desire the piercing pity of your broken collar bones
The caress of the lost-souls melody and the razorblades of a ribcage
The bitter corset of an appetite that pays for itself in crocodile tears
And the romance of a noose of flaxen hair
You are not Porphyria
And he is not her lover

A lowly wooden bench lent itself to a lonesome aged narrow man in a common garden in the smallest hour of the day’s beginning. In the thick haze of the summer’s waking light the common is thinly met with the company of others. Just an old man and his acquainted bench who came to give his eyes sight to the grass and trees, and to rid himself of thought.
He and the bench creak as he sits back; clutching at the satchel veiled among his dull drudged garb that bleeds into his pallid slack and cracked skin.
The wiry hairs bushed around his nostrils recoil to the deep inhale before the sigh, his yawning blue eyes sliding behind a milky glaze follow a bushy tailed rodent hurry into the confidence of a tree.
Through all nonchalance a pair of hobgoblin lugs under a brown woollen hat slides up the flanks of his head to outlying drowned tones of laddish laughs and lewd levity, an unseen clutch of kids filling the common’s spread with their foolish louting prances. Intimidating the preferred and performed with their innocuous idiocies; a mere asocial array of follies without the thought of good manner.
The thoughts of the old man are only briefly drawn; his ears leave the sounds of reckless recreation and back to the hushing song of the swaying grass, the rustling shake of the seasoned leaves on gorged and drooping branches. To his own wilted waning heart, the tremors, quiver and shivers within his own cage, his thoughts turned to his own temporal passage and to the re-joining of his love, of whom no longer lays her head on his shoulder, whom no longer wraps herself around his arm on the lowly park bench.
His lowest lip gives to an emotive tremble as he heaves himself over to the hem of the seat, his hands without any other part to play; frenetically tickle one another with frail kinked fingers.
With what little his body has left to give the eyes well to the upmost point of a tear, as he feels the weight of his wallet in his side trouser pocket against the rough of his skin. Where there within lays an image of a most loved face in a prized time, so that it may be remembered so it may fetch ease to a remittent floundering morsel of a man who could justly with the dead.
The photograph within his keeping need not be looked upon from under the shine of a laminated holding; it needs only to be there, only to be known that it is there.
The satchel was undid and fetched from within the clutter came an elderly notebook now held in his hands. A phlegmy husk of something said breeches his gummy chops, and he spits as he spat shouting out at the still of the garden.
“You should always write more than you do,” she would say, “you are better for it when you do and it lifts me as it does you, when you do.”
The old man reads from the notebook with a weak hate for the world.

“Am I for the worms yet? Am I to be from this rock?
Am I not yet too mad for this mad maddening world?
Four corners of an empty house, a homeless place of curling wallpaper and aloneness for company.
A room in a vagrant house with no light to fill it with a decrepit fool for a keeper
His stink stinks the walls for days as the blow flies form a speckled haze as they feast in filth of his unnoticed demise
With no manner of intention and for relation or friend, there is no cause and no mention for any to attend
He will rot with the house and his memory with it, with his memory does his love die and together they are ghosts in a world where ghosts do not exist.”

The old man pauses as he forcibly triggers one finger to his temple and ***** in his lips. His empty cries fall to a mumble as his hands tremble with his dear notebook in their grasp.

“Take me now cruel are the fates, take me now and rid me
The worms will welcome me, my flesh for an endless night
My life for a world without this life, for a life without his world
I would hold with a brim smile if it was not for my memory of her, if she was not to be lost at the close of this stint
I know not or want knowledge; I seek not of a design and not of meaning
Just a cure for this affliction for my must to her who brings me so much sorrow
Through blissful ages I can no longer hold, and can barely recall
We are all just people who will soon be once living, to be unlived and to forget is a conflict in myself
I have no answer as I have no question, you can have no answer to a question you do not seek nor ask
I dare not speak but I have no end for this, I have no solace and I have no end.”
The old man; the poor old man began to close his dear aged notebook and find the need to bring a smile, perhaps a moment of lunacy to calm the tightening knot beneath his breast.
He pulled a scratching cackle from the pit, wild and uncooked wiping the drool from the crook of his maw with the back of his blotched, mottled hand.
The old man found some seconds of a stoic amenity as his wild eyes grew gallant for those mere moments before the grey metal heft of his sullen vesture fell to his shoulders, he became heavy once more as the world retook him and cloaked again in the present - the light ebbed from him as swiftly as it came. The old man reproached his satchel to humbly return his dear old notebook.
There was a crack like a pick to ice with a hollow thud like a boot to wood as an immediately dissipating claret mist fizzed above his head. The make shift found-about cosh still swinging through the air and over his crown, the old man’s wilted body twisted and slumped to the floor face first. The concrete path before him tearing at the skin of his chin, his frail bones cracked as the meagre weight of his body forced itself into his neck. Laying perverse and unnatural the life was soaked up into his woollen hat and out across the concrete, to the grass – to the worms that writhed below the muck. His eyes were as lifeless as they were when he lived.
They did not wait for the gentle hiss of the spray or the bubbles that popped in the pool that surrounded the old man. They had snatched the satchel and ran off into the spread of the common until they were nothing but outlying drowned tones of laddish laughs and lewd levity.
Crazy old *******.
A lowly wooden bench has lent itself to a lonesome aged narrow man in a common garden in the smallest hour of the day’s beginning. In the thick haze of the summer’s waking light the common is thinly met with the company of others. Just an old man and his acquainted bench who came to give his eyes sight to the grass and trees, and to rid himself of thought.

I remember the weight of his body
Towering over me,
Ensnaring the torn mesh of my skin,
Concealing the crevices he's embedded me in.

The mass of his force,
That spark traveling through his velocity,
Littering my ability,
To resist and penetrate the vein of impalpable pleasure.

He keeps it contained,
At the bottom of the river,
Beneath the hidden plain,
Of his repressed, departed soul.

Acetic fizzed, frothing exhale,
Pirouetting through my nose.
Its toxicity starts to unfold,
And he wants me to recognize  
The power of his redundant trickery
Engraved in his smirking bloodshot eye.

Glasses that tinted blue under the sun
cold, white teeth that dazzled
a smile that fizzed
it whizzed in my stomach.

Tingling, fidgeting hands
a correction of plans that I made when you asked if I was free
for you, I'd always be.

The dark hair that snaked across your head
it drew my breath
and with it left,
the rest of my youth and that is the truth.

Brown eyes, hidden by wireless frames
the sparkle that you once brought
has many times given me the thought:
of how I wish  I could paint your face and
hold your hand against my chest
to do my best to never let go, for then how could I ever know?

A smile that shattered the sky, you spoke of many things
but never once did you utter a "goodbye"
so imagine my surprise when you died and left behind
that wisecracking smile, etched into my skin.

What you did was a sin and now the sky is so dim
a dull lull loses control of it's full power to consume
****, you ruined my plans of a happy beginning
and now it's all about my never beginning ending.

I am spending my days fending for those memories
that fold in the corners of my mind
it takes so long for me to find
your voice that once saved me from my own demise

You were so wise, so sly with your ulterior motives
to take away your own life
and now it's my life to figure out why?
Why, did you have to die?

To the average working stiff
the mouth feel of Saturday
always popped and fizzed

a day to get on with the business
of being
without being defined by your business
(shout out to all in retail and shift work
your heartache is saved for other verse)

This Saturday has come
with revised terms and conditions
that seem to have rather stunted
the former purpose
like a PC revision
gutting all the cheeky dirt
for contemporary sensibilities

Fine, but understand
that from behind closed doors
a million folk are figuring
how to **** about in a myriad
of new ways

Ye can take our pubs,
but ye cannae take
our shenanigans!

Because I'm better at being all alone
Than living up to someones expectations
And that's not living at all
They will drown you in plastic
To cover your flaws
I'm sure thats a job that lasts all year long
And I've got lots of them
Time to conjure one last acceptance speech
I'd like to thank the industry
for teaching me how to sleep with sheep
I'd like to thank the machines
For making, able bodied apes think this laziness is okay
I'd like to thank the dawn of a new age
Where hope is holding on with bruised fingers
Though we cheer passionately from the sidelines we wouldn't dare go up there to help it
I yell until passion wells
In the eyes of the wealthy who couldnt imagine a life that wasnt paved and pre packaged for them
But a single moment washed over us ,and so we lowered our
Heads to let it
Sink to the bottom
Now to unlock our DNA strands
Standing in a perfect circle
A surge of energy immersed us in the ability to understand what we weren't certain of
Electricity fizzed from our finger tips and now we're seeing this
Is being amongst brothers, sisters, and friends
No longer strangers, haters, liars or saints. Saints who sin .just creatures each was cursed with consiousness; in constant connection, we met to
Shed the skin of society chip at the obsession with illusion of time so we can finally aquire the tribesman lifestyle, simple, yet well earned we listen to the wind and learn from the Earth
I accept it as perfection
And think that pain is a hurt stray waiting in windowsills
Praying that peace will fill
Some lonely girls chest
Though she too was begging
To rescue something other than herself
To love is to welcome the infedel
With open arms
To love is to become and see
from each soul, go and leave  
yo tremendous
Ego half dead at the last show  
Now we reaching deeply to all walks of life, argue bout the art of hard knock life, weather lazy fate will win or through some luck find the strength to fight
Keep on getting beat down
But I rise up Everytime

Oh come on come at me I needa scapegoat for my anger
You came to play huh?
Wait til i load these lungs
lets release a contagion of language
if it's a virus anyway let's get sick and stain the papyrus with inkblots and secrets lost under my mumbles so I'm bout bankrupt on selling my emtions
To get well..very unprepared
I know, but under the surface I'm working on a dwelling I can go
To escape the hell
Here she comes they call it
The inevitable farewell
I accept the plane is powering down
Thank you for the freedom to scream my thoughts loudly
Though the crowd might be lousy
At listening
This time we've tried Bonding
Instead Of repeating
History
Farwell
To all of my survivors
Alive and well still wandering
Among the wreckage and can't quit bettering the new new
I accept you and respect you
So until our next hello my friend
Regretfully I bid you and the world farwell

There loomed a certain belief,
One that exhaled soon as she passed.
A sudden urge that fizzed over soon as the bottle opened.
Now granted you can still drink a soda once it's shaken
Most would replace desire for that of another, the discord
Of being splashed in the face by the very desire one in the same.
Drops of truth splashed everywhere seen as backlash, a sort of wrath
Spoken but never heard.
There was something about the contour of the bottle,
Fixed thoughts filled in ovulation.
Everything kept inside.
A certain vengeance that loomed in bliss.
If not handled carefully doom was immanent.
Each time she walked passed he'd shake the bottle more vigorously.
A cold fizz that quenches every desire steadfast with reality.
Curious he looked at the bottle, wanting to quench this need
He placed his hands on the top slowly unscrewing.
Her eyes connected with his, everything paused.
For the first time in a long time everything was beautiful
Sharing a brief look relaxing his shoulders.
He untwisted the top, for a moment she sighed
Feeling a release she hasn't felt in a long time.
His hand smooth against the contour of the bottle
He placed his lips against the bottle easing her to quench this thirst he's waited so long for.
This urge that dried the well of his throat.
She refused him the pleasure of her, keeping her fizz to herself.
Now he knows what it's like to be on the outside looking in

.i used to love women, i dated girls that resembled pornographic movie actresses... i used to love women... i once performed oral *** that resembled an oyster: "missing" salt & juices... once in a bath-tub on her period with a ******... 30 times in the face of a mirror within the framework of green "ivory"... 2 months of a relationship to dictate 20 years of my life... ****! much sooner to make charity of a dog's worth of a clarity of a leash... i still love women... whenever i visit my grandparents, i sit with her (my grandmother), solving crossword puzzles between 9am and 10am drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette or two... dozen or so prostitutes... does it matter?! i didn't bask in doing a glory-hole **** fest off a whim in: yes, that added "extra" F... who knew, who saw... who sowed.

and to explore the loss of reins
of a female sexuality:

i, chimp,
denigrated status
emblem,
am...

           less a chimp
in the eyes of a man,
than a man in the eyes
of a chimp,
in the eyes of: if man...

to the rights of a woman's
body: i too would have
chosen an alternative
in the "sexed up":
     handkerchief...

of a: glutton fizzed
'em up by the squirt's load of:
the materialism of
the inversion of *****:

i, man, ***** =
flush down the toilet...

i, woman, ovaries =
and the ***** that
touches them,
as much as a sneeze!

pregnant!

            mantis mama...
as man searched for much
longer in the cranium
of some: random ape...
what did woman do?
alienate the concensus
of:
          she didn't look
into the mammalian
aspect
to coincide with a motherhood...

female eroticism?
insect... reptile...

sorry...

             i am much too
a simple man to ask
for too a simple woman...
i didn't elaborate
on whether
   there was a "whether"
to exodus with
to focus on an in situ...

given:
was there any in situ
to begin with
that wasn't a Pandora's
variety of per se?

throw me a punch,
shove me into a stinking
sewer...
this is the least of
the most that i am grieving
in allowing to be:
substitute for...

                a magician's trick
of supposing a fakery
of gravity in the variety
of levitation...

i cuddle a cat to
sleep and think:
   this could,
and never will be...
a woman.

that must be
the final
indignity
the thought
that comes
and goes
explodes
vanishes
like some
mythical
gossamer thing
that drifts in
your mind the
vision that
completely
disappears
as if some
invisible
sprite had
swiped it
from some
troublesome
cobweb
in your brain
and hustled it
away
that image
that feeling
that number
that person's
eyes  nose  mouth
that remembrance
that funny thing
you said at
some raucous
party a few
years ago
or was it
many years ago?
you can almost
hear the
laughter from
the crowd
as if you were
there again
but what was
it you said
exactly?

and what about
that old neighbor
you liked so much
the one who died
shoveling snow?
a man you knew
for twenty years
and now you can
only vaguely recall
his body sprawled
out at the end
of his driveway
now you can't
even summon
his name
what was
his name?
what was
it?

you would be
grateful now
to dredge up
the very first
time you met
your future
in-laws your
daughter's
first dance
recital your
grandson's first
soccer match
or even that
poem you
revisited
last night
before you
fell asleep
that poem
your wife shared
with you
what was
that poem
about? what was
the title?
the audacious
first line?
all the words
and clever
alliteration
all reduced to
a hazy blur
dissipating
like those
antacid
tablets that
fizzed into
a seltzery
four ounces
swirling
midway down
a plain white
dixie cup you
left
abandoned
forgotten
on the
bathroom
counter hours
ago...could
even discomfort
even pain
be erased
so quickly
so easily
so thoroughly?

...gone flat
Just fizzed out of me
But I do write sometimes....

Not tonight—
Only frantic sparrows roosting
Heavy overlap of clouds

orange crush,
when we were born
sunkissed yellow rays peaked
in liquid shining brilliance
bubbling stardust
spilled down into puddles
rising in vibrance
until the world fizzed over

Footsteps.
Perilous, ominous footsteps.
Every floor board is creaking,
and you're hiding,
as pale as a statue that had once seen its glory days
but now is crumbling to pieces.
The door swings open.
You hit the pause button,
everything seems frozen,
and you hit rewind.
You press stop,
at the first memory you have.
Then you hit fast forward.
Moments are flashing
right before your eyes,
you relive your life.
The good and the bad,
and the in-between,
the day where you learned
nothing was ever black and white,
the first time you lost someone
you truly loved,
your first steps,
your first kiss.
Your first dance,
your first graduation,
your first day you felt truly on top of the world.
Your first fear,
your first broken heart,
your first crisis of who you were.
Your first everything,
and your last.
The moment you realize,
that not everything goes according to plan.
Everything goes by in a matter of seconds,
and then you hit play,
and you take your last breath.
A solitary shot rang out,
and your mind fizzed to nothingness,
gone just like your memories,
gone like the ominous footsteps,
gone with the feeling of life,
gone just like everything else
that had left before.
Then it ends,
and another power hits eject,
and your part is extracted
from the movie
called life.

We were probably thirteen. I told
my parents I'd be bowling, borrowed
five pounds and you
did the hard part. Asking men out-
side the off-licence to help us.
I tried to make if look like we were old-

er or together but it wasn't
long before we had the bottle
or six of Bacardi Breezer. Prising
each lid off with my keys,
you picked out seats from the dusk
deserted cricket stand.

A couple through, you showed me
how to put my hand in someone's pants
as sticky alcopops slopped
round and down again. I couldn't open
our last nightcap so we stamped
its neck against a brick and doubled up.

We didn't kiss goodbye, just
staggered into swaggers step
by step across the Common.
My mouth fizzed with syrup
residue and blood from broken
glass.

We drank cider
And filled our faces
With cheesecake that tasted
Almost as tangy as the blood
That fizzed through (and out) of my veins
As a consequence of you.
And I thought to myself,
The sunlight will always be golden
But I will never again smell cigarette smoke
And think of anyone other than you
With your stupid hyperbolic smile
And if I can't see the way eight pm
Looks beneath your lashes
Or the way the summer hours
Turn your hair into auburn fire
Then I may as well bury my eyes
In the soil that hasn't yet
Managed to kiss your feet.

Musa stands for banana
But his name sake was Furhana
His headwear folded like samosa
Not to be confused with mimosa
Yet the fold was like Koya's head towel
Even the fantastic Ayamu's downwell.
That said: Koya heckled with his sickle knife
Never failed in the field to sit and file
The blade to trim out the hedge's tendrils rife
Closed one eye to see the fence's profile
The cutting-hedge technology of fence
Continued without denouncing offense
Rarely reaching any end, the dense
Fence talk gains again as every day commence.

Beauty creation was his faint inclination
At the entrance of the tea plantation
Stationed near to the police station
Part of his task unasked in the division
Was standing and talking to the man on the bike
Talks like, the strike, the Labour wages hike,
How to dodge a strife for a fair bounty
With words coated with 'chondy-chandy sugar candy.
For its said, he can wear any colour, I-uhml-green or P-yellows
To send jaundice or dainties to the Poor-fellows.
The talk prolong as the baron mellows
Till the madam's call comes from the bungalows.

Back to Musa, sorry for the interruption, he was left behind the lines...
For names of Mayan, Maanu and Jaanu make a beeline
Like Beebi and Kaybee,  maybe the guy too, sounding Shanghai,
All are bonanza, for a due stanza.

Musa chirped with chops of English
And fizzed out the name of fish and dish
Proud that he worked even with some British.
Once he mumbled the name mom and mummy
To call out his humble wife to introduce
The visiting chummy colleagues, over there.
Her numb eyes goggled out of a slimy shawl to reduce
Her head to a crummy Kameez that beleaguered  on her.
Not knowing what his trendy husband is telling,
And why he is calling her before them, Asia instead of Aisha!
His friends knew her trouble and told her its alright
And that made her feel she is the same Ayichumma on her own right.

Once Musa stumbled on the name 'chips' at a shop in the city;
Ordered the same along with other civil society
While seeing it packed, he grumbled for his stupidity
And burst out, "O, just the Koya fried banana, that's aplenty in our vicinity".
The shopkeeper gave a laugh,
And there, Musa left in a huff!

Fizzed at edges like
seltzer water
from a plastic pack

Tell me - what do you
see?

You tell him - I see more
than I asked for

A smile and a grimace and
the alkaline aroma of burnt lemon
wafts in the window

Rock music and emotions in song
legends cast in gold
hesitancy in cracked discs
honesty in teary eyes

Dreamer Boy, you tell him
I see more than I ever imagined

It's a rainy city and a sunny one
all at once.

Poem, The old wheelbarrow

"She felt forgotten, antiquated, awkward
Ill-fitted, incapable, unsuitable, worthless, barren, meaningless, mediocre, unessential and trivial.
AND A BIG FAT INCONVENIENCE.........

Her capacity for anything and everything dwindling as an over ripened apple loses its juice, any strength drained, sapped, starved and strained each time a new **** began it's desperate life, each flower that bloomed before her, somehow rendered her invisible.

Held together by the rust that life eventually bestows upon us all.
Tyres deflated, wheels that no longer held hunger for new adventures.
Nuts and bolts that had long since argued and permanently fallen out with one another, the rust settled between them enduringly as the woodworm to its dinner.

She was a sorry excuse for a once beautiful, strong and hard working wheelbarrow and she had almost given up................

✨️Ahhhhhhhh, but her wisdom!!!! All those years.......What of that?????✨️

She'd always listened,
absorbed,
but never knowingly spoke of this
What she had yet to learn,
Was that she had housed each tiny living organism.
She'd provided honey for the bees, and in doing so, life for the world.
She hadn't set any world records,
(No)

She hadn't knowingly saved any lives,
(Yes)
but she'd protected,
given out her wisdom freely
and all with so much love.

Absorbed carbon dioxide and fizzed out oxygen.
Given love in abundance and rarely asked for any in return
She had given a safe space for the thoughts, secrets and words of her sapling flowers

She'd been self sufficient, self reliable, independent, indestructible, valuable, knowledgeable, needed, wanted, desired, capable.... Oh. So. Capable.

The rust, the flat tires, the weakness of strength both in body and in mind, is just a part of being the best version that you can be.
To carry on regardless for yourself and for your flowers."

***It's taken me all **** day, but I no longer see a worn out and batteted wheelbarrow.
I see a vessel of immense strength, determination and an abundance of love ❤️

what an improvement, if they keep it up, working from: Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού, toward rituals - they'll be remembered in history, just like aphrodite's child, and i guarantee this to be true; you really have to build an edifice of religiosity.

stray dogs...
                                    you heard me,
poland is filled with stray dogs,
homeless dogs,
   homeless cats that live
in the cemetery and wait
for the next burial...
   no stray dogs in england...
i was the one who finished off
the roof on the battersea shelter
laying the slabs on the extension...
it's god awfully strange
returning to a monochromatic
society,
        you feel, what's the word:
bleached?
           it can be sometimes
irritable, but then again:
i'm bound to read a book in
polish immersed in the language
proper, without some english
background noise to
disturb me...
    the day when english psychiatrists
mishandled the case:
the day when bilingualism was
actually "schizophrenia" -
i could sue the n.h.s. if i wanted,
how can you misdiagnose
bilingualism as split-*****-for-a-brain?
       when i visited london
the only face i can now remember
is that of a homeless person -
  all the other faces are either
boring, or myopic blurry...
              not worth the storage space
in the memory compartment;
i have a child to tell me what's
worth keeping,
  the once obedient child says:
you've been taught what requires
forgetting...
all the lesson in school are
erosions of your psyche...
                you learn, but by learning
you clog the river of thought
(flumen cogitatus) -
        unlike the *labyrinthus cogitatus -
schooling erodes memory,
   pythagoras is a bit pointless
given newton and projection -
and other trigonometric guises of
expansion...
        ****** schooling, schitty life:
the only option being:
   learn from yourself, by yourself,
and feed that learning to no other than:
your self.
               the english, what can you say:
how did the greek establish a need
for diacritical marks, while the english,
in their pompousness didn't bother?
the ambition to remain of latin stock
fizzed up in their heads...
even the greeks returned to helen's
*****, away from the byzantine crown...
the english? no, they didn't...
which is why i'm writing in a naked
form of inserting pieces or whole sounds...
rule being: if there's still any saxon
in the anglos -
ßpin...          soma...    soup...
                            ßpeak...
          suggest -
                               sacrifice -
                  ßpark!
               you think e. e. cummings
spoke of orthography? you want
to introduce orthography?
listen... english is a blank slate of
a language, it's ready to be imbued
with diacritical markings to invent
an orthography in the language...
   let's begin with:
   a word beginning with an S is
a grapheme when it's followed up
by a consonant...
      ßpit!
                    but when it's followed
by a vowel - it's a normalised S;
          i.e. prolonged.
      and yes, the R devolved when the french
started harking at it,
  and the english started numbing the
rattler serpent hidden in R...
           stood the statue of the two tongues -
are we clear about what orthography is
concerned with?
                there are two options,
only one is aesthetically accepted:
   guwno & gówno - **** & **** -
                      miraculously w = ł....
              so the V salute...
                         gavron, gavron... gavron.
no, you don't see any stray dogs in
england, you'll sooner find a homeless man
sitting by a tube station outcast
than a stray dog...
in poland? you'll sooner see a stray
           dog than a homeless person.
O beacon of the civilised world!  
speak to me!
                     **** it, shut the **** up;
i've heard illuminating ideas to
construct a chandelier.
          - and i did sometimes pitied
wooden houses, when winter came...
      how i thought stone was marble,
and then i realised, placing my crow foot
onto the porch wood: warm,
staggeringly warm,
   wood is besides the cold -
    it's actually warm...
    at least wood does not insulate the cold
as the stone does...
    we have no talk of orthography in
the english tongue, if we do not have
diacritical marks introduced...
      'n writing back to 'ye ol' english -
with that ******* thy 'twine v'eh
          rather than a f'eh perfect word -
forget it...
        i'm past integrating into this tongue:
i'm into disrupting it, mingling by mangling
it silly...
                   might i add...
rotting christ ought to revise the song
   ze nigmar...
there is a crucial melodic element in the song,
it's barely receptible,
but it's there, shy,
like all the bass in metallica's songs...
       this song (ze nigmar) needs
to be revamped - it needs revision,
a remastering, so the melodic backdrop
stands out from the heavy guitars...
           given the guitars play a rhythmic
section, it would not bother the entire
track to spectacle the melodic element...
upwards and onwards with this
greek band...
                         oddly enough,
by this track alone (ze nigmar), i might
actually buy their rituals album;
nonetheless we're still stuck with english
in eden...
          you ever wonder why they derived
so much political power not having
revised the original latin script with
northern or southern revisions and
       additions?
   the birth of unaccountable accents comes
from missing diacritical markings -
and the reply goes:
  why do you have an accent?
an english man asks.
the person with an accent replies:
and why do you not have diacritical
marks that are all-too-apparent
                          in your lettering?
you can't fake orthography by Mm -
or for that matter,
why has your tongue been cyber-netted -
lost in the abyss of a.i. -
to have once written later to now write l8r?
   you and your digital "orthography" -
he discarded the hieroglyphs,
he discarded the cuneiform -
but kept the latin, to write out an electronic
base, and kept the coliseum for
the modern football arena;
  yes, **** grammar, **** pedantic -
         and if anyone's going to "dox" me...
it will be done by me, and me alone;
that's how i appreciate the "****" element
of things: the pedantry is the pivotal crux
of writing a confession of
  having established the likes and dislikes
of using a language -
  given that this tongue is but my second
and subsequently my last,
   i relish the fact that i was born to turn
this language into a tool, a hammer,
a blunt knife...
     and how others are born into this
language, and know no other,
  while some attempt an escape -
  others treat this language as the all-encompassing
crutch of expression...
              for me a tool...
    for them a safety wheel -
     for me a language i can deviated into
aggressive tendencies,
  for them a language used to cushion
my exploitative advances...
   true assimilation only arrives when
the acquiring party speaks the native tongue
better than the natives...
                     but still retains respect for
its genesis of born "loss" & subsequent acquisition...
one never deals in assimilation in
the hegelian terminology of master & slave -
in terms of language -
    akin to etymology being the other part
of history - more apparent, and always
more nimble in being resurrect at a glance -
to me english is a parasite -
                                  and i'm but a host.

She was strong now.
She stood taller than the mountain that once towered above,
where down on her knees,
she used to pray.

The days she'd knelt down and curled away from the light,
were a distant memory.
Now the light flooded her,
until the tips of her fingers fizzed
with the new life she held inside her soul.

She'd written away the fear from deep of inside herself.
She'd written until all the ink, in all the pens she owned had run dry.
Until her fingers bled and her mind emptied.

She stretched out and then she held on tightly to the love that now engulfed her,
and she smiled.

A small joy had revealed itself and she danced to the sound of long awaited relief.

She was now the mountain.
She would endure all weathers. She would house those in need. She would search deeper inside of herself,
of her heart and she would become kinder,
more understanding,
and would bestow more love.

There were still times when she had to fight.
Times during the storms,
when she just wanted to let go and return to the old familiar patterns,
and the safety of her old misery.

But she did not return,
not fully.
And she knows she never will.

Love is the answer ❤

A dim haze silhouetted the mire
A gurgling burble swirled beneath
A twirled stump rotten in decay
A deer struggled frantic to escape
A high pitched wailing and flailing
A deep moan and groan followed by
A silence
A stench welled up as flesh decayed
A harsh hiss as the acid fizzed
A fetid fragrance that wafted to join
A dim haze that silhouetted the mire

Feeling good all the time in the house
Till my classmates text so loud
Big crowd, asking if there's going to be something submitted
No one cared and no replies were committed
To everyone asking that specific question repeated
Never had an answer despite 44 people were collected,
As the silence and awkwardness just started.
But no could believe when someone asked if "When's the quiz?"
Feelings and attention spammed as it left the bliss,
The feeling of breeze was gone, was like a coke fizzed
Everyone stormed back saying "There's a quiz?"
With a mighty hand and wrist he replied with "I Don't know"
***, My Gosh, I hate you, Oh No,
With angered emotions going more in flow
Such a crazy man to ask a silly question
But we don't know if it comes back haunting us after such occasion.

We talk about her
Though we know she is only in the next room.
She is trying not to be rude and eavesdrop
But some of the names we mention
Sound so familiar
And the hymn, the melody, almost like a waltz
Wasn't that one of her favourites?
She tries to join in with a voice
Still frail and small
Until she realises she is singing on her own.
The music has stopped
And we have moved outside
To look at the flowers.

It's hard for me to remember much
She seemed old even then.
But I will never forget the ritualistic
Saturday afternoon visits.
When all my friends were out playing
We were dragged off, complaining madly,
To the big house at the end of the road.
I remember some of the rooms were never used
And the furniture in them
Was covered in white sheets.
As soon as we arrived we were led away
From those closed doors,
Down a flight of steep cellar steps
To choose our lemonade.
Flavours mattered little,
Bright colours, red, green or yellow
Were the only things that caught our eye
And we would emerge triumphant
Each with a glass that sparkled and fizzed.

The garden was huge with rows of apple trees
And a maize of trellised pathways.
There were mysterious sheds with doors long overgrown
And we only dared peep in
Through dusty fingerprinted windows
At workbenches and gas masks.
Then she would tell us her secret
And lead us quietly towards the Laburnum
Where at head night, if we parted the leaves
A thrush had nested, was feeding her young.
And I remember the greenhouse
With it's giant water **** and wonderful smell of tomatoes
And that it was the perfect place to hide
On long summer evenings
When we didn't want to go home.