The problem with hedgehogs is the universal one.
It's the struggle of every man lying on his back, staring at the stars,
of every woman from mars, trying to appear from venus.
It's the distance between two lovers,
and the pain of the sulking man on the bus.
The problem with the hedgehog is the problem with us.
The binding of every heart that's too large for its chest,
and the worry of the mother who can't rest because her child has not come home.
It's that we feel like we are alone when surrounded by our friends,
and that the feeling of love ends when you hang up the phone.
The problem with hedgehogs is that when times get cold and rough
they can't seem to get warm and soft enough to love.
It's the push you're always giving to keep her away,
and the words you can't find to get him to stay the night.
It's the constant fights that wear you down every day.
It's the talent wasted in pursuit of pretty words
that won't be heard by the ones we care for most,
and the ghosts in the rain of yesterday, that won't leave us be.
The problem with hedgehogs is the problem with me.

There's hedgehogs in my garden
I only see them at night
sniffing and scuffling around
for worms, slugs and termites

They are such particular creatures
with their hardened spins on top
and very little downy fur underneath
they are rather lovely, sniffing underleaf

Those cute little snouts sniffing around
looking for creature that dwell underground
and when they are harassed at all
they do curl up into a tiny ball

I love the hedgehogs in my garden
they are such sweet little things
and when it's cold at night
I bring them warm milk and a bite


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

The night went away.
The sun came out to play.
The hedgehogs are hiding.
Until tonight.
The cats are not crying or calling and screaming.
They went back indoors and they're taking their cream in.
Along with cat biscuits and a little meat.
The dormice are sleeping until bedtime comes.
He's dreaming of Alice and teacups and fun.
In his dream  the Mad Hatter hides,
The queen of hearts decides,who's lives and who to dies.
Who at the end of the day is alive.
It off with his noddle said she.
Stroppy witch, she takes control of croquet games and rabbit holes.

The grub the hedgehog ate, destroyed his mental state.
It was nothing to do with dormice at all.
Somebody gave him milk and bread, instead of worms and garden bugs.
Gave him ****** weird dreams.
Went straight to his head.
Dawn broke.
Shuffled back into his home, under the bushes.
In a bit of a queer confused state.
He went straight back to sleep.
Hedgehogs don't eat bread and milk.
(c) Livvi

now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

there was a little hedgehog adventure bound was he
and a mountain climber he just long to be
he took a trip to everest to see the mountain there
standing very tall  high up in the air.

he took along his tent  climbing ropes and all
up the big high moutain he began to crawl
using all his skill he began to climb
hedgehog took it slow he just took his time.

climbing up the face having lots of fun
he was really happy his adventure had begun
hedgehog he kept going till at the top was he
now he could be famous go down in history.

he had done the thing that he long to do
to be a moutaineer and be famous too.

The geese are talking much these days
just over the way a field next the shore
moves to their webbed dancing
a place of safety from all on the hunt
for flesh and bones feathered.
We have no foxes here, our Island,
small oasis in the sea;
the most the geese have to be alert to
are Man and egg loving Hedgehogs.

there was a little hedgehog he was very sad
it was christmas time and he had lost his dad
the snow had go so deep he got left behind
and the hedgehogs dad he just couldnt find
he just kept on walking in the snow so deep
then he found some snow piled up in a heap
he dug into the snow then he heard a snore
there he  found his dad sleeping on the floor
hedgehog he was happy that he had found his dad
it made his christmas happy best one he ever had

i like the countryside and all there is to see
so many different things you can view for free
there are lots of thing waiting to be found
lots of flowers and plants growing from the ground
there are animals the badger and the hare
hedgehogs and the squirrel all of them are there
there are many berries some that you can eat
mushrooms and the garlic a tasty little treat
there are mice and moles and the little shrew
many other creature waiting there for you
lots and lots of things that nature has to give
mother natures way that helps the world to live

nouns are the only stable grammatical units, the main building blocks of any language, they are rarely modified, or indeed if they are the original noun is no longer decipherable in a verb form as etymologically settled cement, it's still a sand dune... cow and cowering... i've seen foxes cower while cows just stood there doing their internalised fly digestion, rather than spitting acid onto their plate of faeces, they regurgitate it back into their mouth and chew once more... i've seen other animals cower, but that's hardly a reason to say cow- / -er will necessarily mean, etymologically, that the origin of the verb (activity) stemmed from cows. indeed let's treat nouns as exclusive units, not inclusive units of a language, let's forget that they can be modified, because modifying nouns gives as the reason we called nouns exclusive units of a language: a potato is still a kartoffel in german and a kartofel in western polish (eastern polish it's called a ziemniak - fruit of the earth, earth being named ziemia) - so let's just pretend that the reason why there's a noun stability, is because there are so many of them, the stability of nouns is due to the fact that there are so many things in this world that require them, all languages are bankrupt in all other spheres of word categorisation, but in the category of nouns they're so rich, they had to invent slang terminology.*

the english public have been asked to note down
precise locations of hedgehogs, due to their
declining population as people were not generous
with their garden fences, not building Gaza
like tunnels for the hedgehogs to walk through
for an easy chance of earthworm grub...
(did you know that only badgers have figured out
a way to eat hedgehogs? the foxes didn't,
actually the foxes live peacefully side by side
with cats around here) -
this is my second spotting of a hedgehog,
spotted on the road, in a critical condition,
shocked at the traffic, a stone-like creature,
cement not his usual traverse medium,
stone-cold the poor ****** was,
location: hood walk, just off Collier Row roundabout,
two beers in tow, nudge the poor ******
with my foot to get a response, then clawed into
him, he curled up once i picked him up,
a mature hedgehog, then walked with him and
placed him beneath the fence so he could
sprout no longer traumatic in the playing fields
of st. patrick's catholic primary school adjacent to
the church of corpus christi - guess the thought
expired and there was no cogitatio christi...
so indeed, hedgehog spotting, better than trains,
and after all, this wasn't the event that defined my
saturday night.

On behalf of all hedgehogs please read this before lighting your fire on bonfire night.
Wading through rotten wood gathered throughout the year
Lies a little baby hedgehog and in its eye there’s a tear.
In hedgehog talk he pleaded for help and, missing his mum
He was set free to walk back cold and lonesome.
He arrived home and his mum had missed her only son.
She cuddled him while he told her what he had done.
She realised her son could have been burned alive at night
He was under a pile of wood which could have set alight.
She looked at him with all the love in the world and more
But her precious little one was fast asleep on the floor.

I measure out my days in witticisms that fall
As freely and pointlessly as leaves in autumn,
My few amongst the countless that fall anonymously
Along streets, in parks, in gardens
Filling gutters, blocking drains, making homes
For hedgehogs, rats and beetles.
Things we **** with cars, poisons and heels.

You spotted snakes with double tongue,
  Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
  Come not near our fairy queen.

      Philomel, with melody,
      Sing in our sweet lullaby;
    Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
        Never harm,
        Nor spell nor charm,
      Come our lovely lady nigh;
      So, good night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here;
  Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
  Worm nor snail, do no offence.

      Philomel, with melody,
      Sing in our sweet lullaby;
    Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
        Never harm,
        Nor spell nor charm,
      Come our lovely lady nigh;
      So, good night, with lullaby.

Hedgehogs with spines
have it very hard at times,
trying it on with female type
and finding the females have a gripe
with spines,
at times.

A hedgehog I know and have often seen
coats his spines
in poly..sty (a) rine
he finds this a boon
when finding the females swoon at his feet
which just goes to show that you cannot beat
innovation.

Sunset is one time, one thing I dare to love
Different to sunrise, but not so much in light
It’s how fishermen hold so tightly to their line

In evening, my countenance feels pleasantly light
I move through cool air, a smooth-flowing line
Intersecting invisible ties, each person and each they love

I wait for some odd thing in a long ordered line
Calmed by the blending of sun and sea that must be love,
Serenely, I disappoint those in need of cigarette light

The sun bade farewell to the sea, and fell below the horizon line




*—Urchins are hedgehogs of the sea, I was called an urchin by my mother, which I loved. The nicknames only got worse from that point

Through the looking glass I peered, hoping,
Hoping to see another world.
Alice, oh Alice, how envy I you,
Dreaming, still dreaming,
But your dreams come true.

No one moved, not a single spoke, silence,
All around the world grew, or shrink it did.
It was you, Alice, you,
You were the one who grew.
Eat of that mushroom you did.

The caterpillar, smoking its pipe, wheezes,
In the garden, the flowers did sing.
You fell down the rabbit’s hole,
Not too long ago,
A new world you discovered.

The Cat, what was it called? Cheshire.
It’s wide grin, plump body.
Here, there, nowhere, it vanishes and reappears,
A cat without a grin, you’ve seen,
Not a grin, without the cat.

The Mad Hatter, the March Hare, seated,
Dormouse still sleeping.
Table long, tea cups and pots,
All set and ready,
Truly a Mad Tea-Party.

The Queen, oh, Her Majesty, Red hearts,
Loyal subjects pay their respects.
Golf, was it? No – croquet, you played.
Flamingos and hedgehogs,
Certainly a difficult game.

Painting the roses red, they were,
Red, red roses. The gardener,
He grew them all wrong: White roses from the trees,
Card soldiers, hard work.

Roused, awakened, your sister came, running,
A dream you thought.
It must have been, maybe,
The mushroom in your pocket, the white rabbit’s glove,
You know where you’ve been.

land of no responsibility
except to give in to that burning urge
that prickles up the back of your neck on waking
to be off out running under sun
barefoot as soon as out of sight
adventures wait and time belongs to you
you fish for sticklebacks in a field of golden corn
where farmers wave in anger at the trail to the pond
and take home tadpoles in glass jars on string
breathless at the sight of legs emerging
pick bluebells in the wood for mother
but then arrange them in old tins
in tumbledown cottage the gangs den
scrumping crab apples in overgrown gardens  
never getting that stomach ache all Adults warned of
roaming hedgerows looking for hedgehogs
hoping for signs of any living thing
all long fled at the collective noise you make
catching butterflies to look at their wings
putting crysillis in greaseproof papered jars
to watch them emerge for flight on glistening wings
when you return them to the wild
lifting up old drain pipes to look for slugs to race
not forgetting to put them back at races end so they dont shrivel
basking in hot sun after watching trails of catapillars
whose prickles mother later tweezers out
amidst a small flood of tears because they flame red
having a bath with bubbles then tucking up in bed
drowzy but anticipating  tomorrow is waiting

Deep down a rabbit’s hole
Lies a strange and wonderful place
Where there is no such thing as time
Or sanity or space

You fall into a room
Where there’s a drink that can make you small
A door so very little
And a cake that can make you tall

A garden where flowers can talk
Where a smart mouthed caterpillar make smoke rings
An island where dodos live
And where birds and sea creatures sing

Down the road live a hatter and a hare
Their cakes and tea are the very best
Both so mad and very insane
Asking why a raven is like a writing desk

In a palace lives a Queen
Who is very short tempered
And with just four little words
She can have your head dismembered

A yard where they use flamingoes and hedgehogs
To play a game of crocket
And forests where bread-and-butterflies
And rocking-horseflies come out and play

Up a tree lives the Cheshire Cat
Who slowly disappears
Telling a young, blond haired girl
Almost everyone is mad here

In this place, it makes sense
That what it is it wouldn’t be
And what it wouldn’t be, it would
Logic of childish insanity

So you are cordially invited
To this place so eccentric and grand
Where nonsense is your guide
To this kingdom called Wonderland

I walk along same paths everyday
I never look for what on display
Birds singing dancing away
Sun out beating it's play
I feel the warm rays
This washes my cares away.

Ive walked this  path everyday
Today my feet move with the sun's dancing  beat with  the dancing of the little Robins feet.

I take my time on this warm spring day I take it all in , it warms me within

Moving with the sun beat
I'm dancing with the little Robins feet
I Shuffle muffle with the hedgehogs snuffle,  pushing through ***** leave i just love this spring time beat
I'm dancing to the little Robins feet .

My little blue dress hangs in my closet now, and my black ribbon is around my wrist and not my hair. I've cut my long blonde hair shorter, and my childhood fantasies are a mere haunting that reach to me at night, reminding me of who I am.

I once dreamt of you as a wonderland, a place of fear and magic and horror that I would suffer a thousand lives to feel a moment of.

Then I grew older, and recognized that this wasn't a wonderland; or perhaps, it was, but not quite the wonderland I was thinking of. This wonderland had a name, a name that came with frightening connotations.

Bipolar.

Those fantastical moments in which I was flying, in which nothing but the flowers could sing with me as I danced in a purple field of wonder. Where the bluebells kissed my hands and the crochet was with hedgehogs and the pond behind my house was much more than it seemed.

Bipolar.

Each corner I turned in which a shadow hid behind, shadows I could only see and that chased me through the darkness unto the stairs and into my bed, holding me tight and strangling me until I woke up and realized everything was ok.

Bipolar.

Each friend I made as a child at night that wasn't tangible, though we shook hands and danced and read books together as if we were real. As if anything was real.

Bipolar.

It was a game I was playing that I didn't know was hardwired into my brain, that this wasn't just Grace and her wonderland, it was something darker, deeper. But alas, that's how it is as you age, isn't it?


Wonderland gets darker with each visit, and with each day it grows closer to me. Its terrifying how it may begin to affect others, others i love, but there's not much I can do, is there?

My one wish is that there will not be another blonde little girl, with my green eyes and my blue dress, finding herself stumbling into a wonderland that she cannot handle.

If it means I can never have the one thing I want more than anything, then I am willing to sacrifice everything to protect that little girl.

I will never lead another little girl into wonderland.

Never.

we'd wake up and play with magic
like any other game of pretend
bath towel tied into a cape
we'd approach an empty plastic top hat
wand in hand
 
we were tapping into an ancient power
that we barely even knew
we've played a superhero, Sub-zero
and now, a miracle worker
there was nothing we couldn't do
 
we'd climb trees to the summit branches
as high as we'd dare to go
we'd lower the hoop and dunk with ease
alley-oops, 360s
sometimes in slow-mo
 
there was nothing but room
to grow and explore
frontiers of the imagination
seized on roller blades with plastic swords
 
we'd tie skateboards to the back of bicycles
and Jamaican bobsled down the street
we were free ninjas in the 90s
off to adventures no one sees
 
we'd front roll down hills like hedgehogs
we'd scrape knees
we'd footrace to the stop sign and back
to pretend we're going faster
we'd kick clouds of dust in our tracks
 
we'd steal bricks from the neighbor's garden
and throw them into lakes to see the splash
we'd throw pebbles to see how high they'd go
or paper planes from the top of the staircases
one time, we jumped off:
it was a dare
we did it though
 
we unscrewed the air cap from the tires
of our enemies' parked cars
we clapped back with super soakers
the block was truly ours
 
we'd play until the streetlights came on
with more discoveries left unseen
and in the shadows while sleeping
we'd play catch with our dreams

Scarlet is the only paint I know
Gone from my palette forever
Are greens and blues of every hue
Yellows and oranges no longer acceptable
Purples blacks and whites, no more
Red, scarlet crimson; only these
The color of blood and roses
But wait, I don't like order
So let's say that french kisses are red
And cool water is too
Redefining red as I wish, I make
Soft curling ferns and fuzzy bellied hedgehogs red
And you know what?
Scarlet is now the only paint I know

The pace was too fast
So i just slowed it down
Giving you a chance to breath
We're not hedgehogs with red shoes
We're human beings
Take it down a notch for a day or two
Inconsistent pace isn't always bad
Give it time to rest.

pop a balloon will you, they think i'm a Jehovah's witness not wanting to celebrate this ******* farce... last time i popped a balloon was on Guy Fawkes' night, i went into fireworks shop and asked for a firework, got turned away, walked into another shop that sold balloons, bought a packed, went back to the fireworks shop with the balloon pufferfish... the ****** didn't pop with a smack of the hand, it had some additive in it to strengthen the membrane... a clown parade came after.

i'm 30 today, got a call from my grandparents
wishing me a: hoo ha what not, encore encore,
health and more health -
conversation with grandmother was fine,
but then my grandfather got me depressed,
the lecture about how he'd have been
working 15 years to date my year in passing,
post-war veteran, he was the one asking
for candy from the ᛋᛋ men - *herr, bite bonbon,
i spent many years with him, walking, talking,
the graveyard was our oyster, our pearl,
we became hyenas of the graves -
but on this day i got hit by a steam-train knuckle,
started thinking about getting ****** right away:
'look, i live in a society where poetry is
under-appreciated, even un-, there are no
rewards in this field, what was the point of educating
myself if all this poetry is, quiet literally state
sponsored? it's pathetic! i would love to come and
see you but i will not use your money to get over
there, i have an addiction to pursue, including
a quasi-career. poetry has been hijacked by
oompa-loompas, the kids they own the internet,
i guess because that's the easiest way to describe
any germination, in poetry you can't be a Mozart
boasting about your genius aged 8...
Mozart was a trained monkey, poetry requires
experience, heartbreak, the gritty bits & bobs,
sure, you can learn all the techniques, write
technical poetry, but from such poetry i'll be
reduced to an english student, spotting poetic
techniques like a statistician spotting trends,
ball-breaking expressions.'
and with that i realised, i wanted to be a bohemian,
but bohemian also means urban, means
other people's company... i can't do that,
i'm purposively lodged in outer suburbia,
there's too much Wordsworth in me to claim
bohemian blue / cool; leave me with deer foxes
hedgehogs and a Noah's ark array of birds...
i can't do the stink, the claustrophobic coagulation
of human sweat... or as i once suggested:
better celibate than mere piston and ******
                                                        "i­mmaturity"...
i **** like crossing the street, look two times each
way and mind the heart...
i can drink a 70cl bottle of whiskey a day...
only because i'm alone, in company the mood is
quiet different, you're not suggesting alcohol as having
calories, you use it as an inhibitor of social insecurities,
medically speaking from my perspective?
sedative... sedative... sedative... i don't know
any barbiturates pharmacist Nietzsche didn't leave
any clues in his writing, what a shame, back
when writing had to be printed and had to have all
kinds of mannerisms of respectability - what ponce.
by the way... you're not actually getting fooled
for those illiterate scraps of the Nag Hammadi library?
word of goat more like... look around you!
the large majority of us are literate, you don't actually
think the Nag Hammadi library is sacred?
even Bruce... ah ****, Caitlyn is having second thoughts
about the "wisdom" implied by St. Thomas' Gospel...
but yeah... 30... ooh... time to bite my nails...
career not off the ground... ooh... what to do what to do...
have a drink and reiterate:
                                               can't do bohemian,
can only do rustic (suits me)...             civilising wieśniactwo -
bo jestem z miasta... ah... bo jestem z miasta...
to widać i słychać i czuć...
                                                alter! hey **, dawaj alter!
bo jestem ze wsi...                         niby widać
i            słychać              i czuć (na grzbiecie mam a pigglet)!
            ah then piękny mish-mash duo-baritone, sz,
                   no no, prawie Tuwim Opera!
hey! don't come running to me, a 12 year old immigrant
said that the majority of polish migrants in england
create a village atmosphere... now that's masochistic
racism - last night i was laughing during a televised
geography lesson... doesn't get better than that in terms
of birthday presents.

i wither...
                                                       ­         ~away
i float from my consciousness, watching myself listen
to endless dribble of the ignorant pro-tagonist of life.

the limitless waves of gray faberic framing the brown bald
and blonde hedgehogs poking their heads up to electrify their
deaf ears and blind eyes – blind eyes
to the world of a real mind.

-they cant see as i see – this life (of theirs) means as much as the DIRT holding the ground of the ghosts in wooden boxes under the rocks
mouths moving words flying
silly tongues flapping – saying nothing – begging for nothing while across the gray,
dull words of hip-hop and pop don’t stop…
contradicting the history of blood and turmoil

ridiculing the bowtie wrapped around the neck of authority – maneuvering the black and white pieces of a chess board  - an antiquated system crumbling – the backbone of an elephant standing tall while ignoring the memory of those dishonored by them – they forget – the ever-forgetting elephant no!
the ignorant elephants whose eyes have been gutted by its own tail – these elephants don’t wail
i wail, scream, howl and groan I weep (inwardly) as I stand cold, engulfed in smoke and smog. I scoff, scowl, and scorn openly inwardly at the treachery and horror that life brings

forgetful is that elephant that kindness is not weakness warmth is not love and a smile is not always real – gripping clawing scratching grabbing clutching to a life that means nothing – than recycled water in the perpetual flow of a ****** river
theyweep theycry theybeg theydie

and they are faded...
…into memories – and the gray infinite abyss of the blue collar drone.

nature is a wonder with lots of things to see

for all the world to view all of this for free

the singing of the birds high up in the trees

the blowing of the wind with its gentle breeze.



creatures in the forest there quite a few

squirrels and the hedgehogs lots of others too

there are many things nature as to give

a miracle of life that helps the world to live

He conceived you
Wrote you
Those acts for you
Unfold relentlessly

A stethoscope he hears
Your heart-lines well known
The days you bent
Or contract at contacts

A moon he watches
The geometry shapes you create in bed
Or the oceans let loose
The hedgehogs on your skin
He cried a shimmering tear

He kisses you
Work you
So don’t you love
The boy across

Watched over by magnificent ancient trees
though perfectly placed to capture the sun
surrounded by walls of multi coloured ivy’s
there lies a paradise second to none.
Bright vivid colours, shades and hues
only add to the general splendour
yellows, pinks, oranges, reds and blues
colours any artist would be challenged to render.
There are lilies, marigolds, roses and petunias
creepers and climbers racing down and up
geraniums, pansies, lavenders and begonias
grass peppered with daisies and buttercups.  
All day butterflies, wasps and bumble bees
work tirelessly alongside one another
relentlessly searching for flowers that please
flitting constantly from one to the other.
A wide variety of flowers, plants and shrubs
burst forth from hanging baskets, flower beds and tubs
providing shelter thus becoming teeming hubs
full of worms and snails, insects and grubs.
Birds rear young nesting in trees and bushes
foraging for food amongst the growing throng
blackbirds, finches, pigeons wrens and thrushes
together creating truly melodic birdsong.
A place that transforms long after night fall
when nocturnal creatures have hunting to do
field mice and hedgehogs from the undergrowth crawl
while the odd wary fox occasionally passes through.
Alas for many the garden becomes just another chore
far too busy to see it can offer so much more
never making the most of the opportunity to see
what a wondrous, thriving paradise a garden can be.

i can easily counter a poem such as this one, apparently some sort of national identity is no permitted, in the great bleaching project that's globalisation... all the old sages of poland speak of the youth being greatly disgruntled with globalisation: it's just a farce of noun-censorship and pure pronoun usage, it's almost the stone ages i might add: flint + flint + quick strike the two = fire... or? if it's in english it's permitted, anything else isn't... but i woke with a memory of a dream today... i was on a train... donning a black SS uniform... i'd swear god (atheistically worded version: freud's interpretation of dreams / having an ******* while sleeping) is the worst chinese whisperer, because he tells the truth via dreams... and i was on the train moving large slabs of cold stone about the place, and then curling into a foetal position to sleep; i guess being misunderstood is an asset; but i did mention my paternal great-grandfather owned a wehrmacht dagger, so there.

seems rude to make friends and then disregard them,
poland lodged between the great powers
of russia and prussia and austria,
aiding austria against the ottoman turks
in the battle for vienna, then partitioned,
but none more painful pairing to have
some nation far away heed to help
like england's engagement in aiding poland
in the events of world war ii...
i guess the poles to the anglians are bumper
stickers or at least shock-wave inhibitors of
england's colonialism...
well at least the french and napoleon foremost
gave us the duchy of warsaw, disintegrated
into the free-city state of Krakow like Danzig...
at leas the french didn't introduce a doctrine
into the expressions of middle-classes
that all poles were labourers in the plumbing industry,
what ******* cheek the english have,
it's like i'm bleached ****** clearing pipes
rather than harvesting cotton fields,
what ******* cheek they have...
i'd slice off their upper lip, because it's stiff useless
anyway... and ask them all to grow moustaches
to cover the scar...
what ******* chequer cheek they have to checkmate
me before the first pawn moves...
if you're going to make friends with the ties
of the 2nd world war, the polish r.a.f. pilots
engraved noble in a marble placard in st. paul's
cathedral... at least you'd care to appreciate
the epic novel *(porcelain) doll by B O L E S Ł (W) A W (V)
P R U S.... P R U ß! don't make friends with me
to ease the post-colonial pains, the french didn't,
they gave us a state-freedom,
they didn't suddenly say: come over, do the hard
labour while we procrastinate in glass shards
and gobble gobble talk like turkeys like the current
london mayor of london talk...
the english have a knack of entering a place
and promote democracy always buckling with
every venture, the greeks didn't...
as the current iraqis and syrians say:
oi! gob slobbering ginger bulldog! sing us a song!
you're the best singers in the world... but we dare say...
the most idiotic politicians...
the english politicians always have this in reserve...
you know, when confronted, they do this
funny expression... wholeheartedly intelligent people
when confronted, given the situation of being interview
about some affair, faces like the judas rats
jumping from a sinking ship... they have the maxim:
do the stupid face / pull the stupid face...
that translates as 'my hand isn't in the cookie jar',
they come in, **** it up, draw a few triangles
which makes the geometry of iraq and syria look
as ugly as wyoming... and then leave...
but you know syria is the nevada of the east...
so instead they're selling you peanut butter or lamb shanks...
don't bother listening to their politics...
since their politics is still primarily about aesthetics,
a list of priorities:
1. hedgehogs
2. wind farms
3. suicide among kids
4. the dark ages of cartesian obeluses
    (which end up as multipliers in psychiatric
     definition, splinters of the body from the mind -
     the abstract of the definition of the brain -
     leave many with a rainbow of psychiatric nouns
     and in carnal terms, an allergy to peanuts, for example)
5. censoring historical education,
    more roman empire, less british empire
6. lager, crisps in a bun, fish and chips
    all in all, debased nationalism,
    as you'd expect, after the glories of the empire,
    debased nationalism throughout...
    putting fish & chips next to the big ben
    and the queen's jewels...
7. the lost industries of jaguar and rolls royce.
but coming back to british politics, i'm still all very much
chow mein chuckles with doughnut oily sheen cheeks of
davey cancan mormon.

between the hours of 10pm and 1am you can see the other london "smog," which isn't really a smog, you see it on the outskirts of suburbia in these hours, during winter, when the earth opens and water vaporises into a thick splodge of thickness that's like burnt coal... it's frost temperatures, you walk the distance, you breathe as if smoking a cigarette, the aura is still there, your hands are turning into skeletal keys with the sight a lock, you reiterate the skeletal hands next to your eyes and liver, you become a locksmith, you put the key in, the lock clicks like virginity... you enter... you become a singularity of life expressed; it's outer-suburbia, and you know it's a walking distance from a village, a forest, pasture lands among cows, slaughter bulls, horses, badgers, deer and hedgehogs; the earth opens in winter and shows you lungs, in summer the desolation of aero, dry moth larvae, clear vision, but only in winter the warmed ****** of smog from cigarette-free cemented in roads is re-fathomed in the outer suburbia, here i touch the pinnacle, here i dress like a pineapple... still in my short sleeve shirt and hooded garment i ache for my fingers to feel less flesh for summer and skin's auburn, and rekindle winter with bone and the arithmetic of drummed clicks of joints of fingers plucked from a quill's silence, cracking from the kraken weight of comparison that was never the ring finger entangled with the index finger like the index with the *******, to the surprise of italians a gesticulation of good luck.*

i never got the hang of it, i liked it,
i was young enough after all,
cartoon network still preserved scubidoo,
and he-man, then cow & chicken came
along and i lost it...
i didn't relate to the a.d.h.d. of the cartoons,
it was still sugar coloured, but just
too much rush, so i left it...
my favourite game on that old grey man
of consoles that was playstation 1 like a v.c.r.
for compact disks was tenchu: stealth assassin,
the fifth mission sexism, a merchant
is being ignoble, you're sent to assassinate him,
play as man, you get an automation
for hara kiri video sequence,
play as girl, he's too noble, you have to **** him
manually with his bow & arrow...
lovely snow flakes against nearing spring blossom...
finished it, oh yeah, it was a great game...
i played sim city 3000 because of the cool
jazz music...
the sims though? i freaked out when i moved my pawn
avatar to play computer games rather than
encapsulate a need for medieval armoury to stand
on my mahogany flooring altars of pixel fakes...
played the sim. into playing computer games
all the time and found the wormhole into reality
and thus freaked... stopped playing the game...
fun for a bit, but in terms of mozart & backstreet boys
chess still remains the game equivalent to music
compared classical: very abstract, very much no representative
of reality.
then i completed final fantasy vii with a guide book:
homework was more important, i craved the spoilers,
although i loved the aesthetics...
a three dimensional body walking about in a lavish
two dimensional canvas...
but tonight i remembered the pythagorean *******
of lara croft, all triangular...
years later i heard tomb raider 1 had a dinosaur in it...
never reached that bit...
i got to the part where i killed the pack of foxes
at the beginning and started to look at a two dimensional
fern in a three dimensional landscape...
the ****** fern rotated when i started eyeing it!
weird...
weirder still when i took the game from the computer
and put it against the night sky...
the night sky is like a fern, two dimensional,
but since i'm in an atmosphere of a three dimensional object
i simply can't see 2d;
even while i did a dervish drinking beer
at a memorial of those befallen in world wars, 1 and 2,
i couldn't prove that what day is said to be:
light refracted into blue from oceans...
the night didn't enforce: street lamps give out
such light pollution as to populate the void with stars...
so why the constellations of zodiac disappearing?
how many volts in the sun that you started to care about
energy-saving non-fluorescent piccadilly dead end of neon?
the way i see it, it madonna ice-cream cone bras...
is that the night sky is as 2d as the night sky...
it's so ******* big and wide you might think
an elephant stuck its truck into the **** duct of either ***
and trumpeted a sneeze for an extra expansion...
it's 2d to me... i in dervish couldn't prove i was 2d...
the universe couldn't prove my theory either,
for then i would see it rotate... but i did...
and i did see the background rotate, canvas was big enough
(after all), to allow a 3d stability, but given the 3d stability
also rotated on a ***** (winter in australia, summer in england)
if was all a bit like saying:
you shall not eat from the tree of knowledge -
but we did, and if we didn't,
there would be no excavation of potential,
no evolutionary ingenuity,
we would be beaks and wigs and tails rest assured
unexploited, not ready to delve into a depth that
assured us forks, knives, bridges, microscopes,
we'd be left with a consciousness for the likes of caves...
goo and veil have nothing to do with the case
proposed, god made man in satan's imagine,
and since satan warred with himself, man warred
with man serving a superiority over all things deemed lesser
by him.
which said says as much as:
the exponential evolution of technology
makes 30 year olds seem like grandparents
to the teenagers... which is odd and frankly, a bit funny.

Poetry as a mental illness.
Interesting proposition.

Poets do not see like others.
Poets do not feel like others.
Often, they do not live like others.
Ergo: Poets are not like others.

Assuming others are normal
(assuming that normal exists)
then poets are not normal.

Does that make poetry a mental illness?

I haven't a clue and the mad-hatter
is throwing a party for which
I cannot be late. Forget normal.
Come along. We shall take tea
and play croquet with
flamingoes and hedgehogs,
while speaking in puzzles and rhymes.

That feels normal enough to me.
   ~mce

advancing in alcoholism: when it happens, alcohol for a long while doesn't hit you in the head for a carousel, alcohol exfoliates with the fact that 50ml of whiskey make up 50kcal; the alcohol goes to the body, rather than that abstraction of the brain known as the mind - it's sedative properties become more pronounced, there's no dancing on tabletops for miles, there's no care for binging a day in a week, there are no drinking games, drinking dares - that slogan 'enjoy responsibly,' it applies more to those who drink alcohol and decide upon drinking games, that alcoholics who drink it for alcohol's medicinal purposes; i seriously don't know any better sedative - and if alcohol was such a poison, why was it first used by arab surgeons to disinfect surgical equipment? i'll tell you why... if alcohol was originally used to disinfect surgical equipment, it's used by those who drink it to cut into the realm of psychology, and calmly pull out the intestines.

with a short hangover i sat and mused
over the content of everyday value coca cola
(17p for 2 litres, you get the picture,
it really can be everyday,
forget the logo lego in the mind
that fools you that you're drinking something
better),
BARLEY.... sodium citrate (lemon salt),
i have the secret formula, citric barley,
a lemon infusion of barley, plus the sweeteners.
other than that? i'm perched on the windowsill
hunched, bewildered at seeing a bee
fly up to my window, and it's december,
but the koranic reference is of being -
just be... and all this thinking about my trips
to the brothel, and my genteel approach
to prostitutes drunk, even the one that stole
my debit card and denied it - i called my father
and told him i lost it taking a dump in valentines
park, i climbed over the fence, fell off it once
when i punched through a window of a church
near barkingside (st. augustines) then bought
some sweet cakes from the jewish bakers
with a ****** hand... other times i just climbed
over and roamed in the thick of it of unused
purple ivory of the night - yes, at night
certain things glisten with a sort of milky way aerosol
pollen of dead stars.
again: but other than that? i can recognise about
ten bird species around me - apart from foxes, deer,
badgers and hedgehogs only a step away from me
in the area i occupy which is about 4 square miles:
seagulls (oddly, it's very inland here), crows,
magpies, sparrows, canadian geese, swans, kestrels,
blackbirds, wood pigeons (much larger than
their urban counterparts, which have a more
rhapsodic coo-curl; in polish *synogarlica)
and of course mallards: where the males are so well
distinguished from the brown-freckled females
that they aren't like most androgynous animals where
you can't really distinguish the two apart...
but there are also a few white doves...
some roost on the roof of the church
of the good shepherd on the b174 road...
but you can also spot them on a woody path in
raphael's park... close encounters of the migrating kind.
crap... i'm starting to see myself as a hybrid of
bukowski mingling with wordsworth.