Ten minutes after I had barfed nine nuances of green
and eight hues of pathetic in a pretty steady stream
I found a girl whimpering in the shades of a column
My drunken self coughed and adjusted to being solemn
'cause I knew her long ago and offered her comfort
and perceived it went well but what did it not distort?

dry cheeks and thank you's
I continued whatever
and she played her game

for a boy who gave her the blues
should be the victim of her clever
bedside revenge in vain

he cared two shitbricks 'bout her roundabout
her self-inflicted humiliation was complete
he hunts the insecure to hear his boyz applaud
now she had vengefully given herself to Pete

I realized her dignity was a blood stain on a sheet
and all that was just a laughing matter to Pete
it disappeared with the rumbling of his washing machine
but to my eyes; that spot will never appear clean

I did not have the authority to put that ******-casanova behind bars
but Ink-Eye gave him the prison treatment, in an alley, under the stars
.....
pause. (WHO'S INK-EYE?)
Before I morphed into the niagara falls of puke, this man with a tattooed teardrop was handed my money by my intoxicated hands in order to set things straight the old way. All I dug up from my wallet was three dimes and some pastilles. Minty.
"It'll do".


Last night I sat at the highway diner. All chairs were stacked but mine. On my plate lied a charlatan's tooth wrapped in white tissue paper, as if I had pickpocketted it from his gums. The lousy transistor radio scrambled Tom Waits' "Midnight Lullaby" as the waitress did dishes in the ***** kitchen, and I saw my lone silhouette in the panorama 'show' window illuminated by the worn out neon signs on the diner's facade. I needed to go home.

who the hell rated this recipe
5 stars in the number of 60 reviews
and didn't spot the excess use of
ketchup? i said 2 - 3 tablespoons
and i wasn't far off, i'd use a teaspoon,
but god almighty:
today i used cider for the first time in cooking...
today i used cider in cooking for the last time...
the sugary acidity of the **** thing
concentrating when boiled...
it would have just been as well to have
put a few rowntrees fruit pastilles into the ****
broth... ugh... yuck... 5 hours of heartburn...
don't use cider, even ketchup isn't as bad,
but using cider is like using car battery acid
or hydrochloric acid.

i have an exit plan.
hush
it's for emergencies only
I'll never use it
who knows?
but I'll keep it there
gently now-
a building shy of too short
a secret resting low in my pocket
a couple of pastilles bright
in the palm of my too-steady hand

the departure may be too sudden-
barely a breeze and a sigh before I leave-
but I rest assured that my mind's ensured
by the choice
the exit
my desired desire path

for if it's ever just too much
and tired becomes too weary to smile
i know I'll have the choice
to take a little time
and sit in front of my exit for a while

i don't think anybody sees it in my eyes
it's probably why all those others will cry
but I'll be safe and sound-
Yes, but it all comes 'round!
and im not that selfish of a guy

so I'll cradle my exit to my chest
ill grit my well worn teeth and do my best
ill struggle through
and ill trudge through the rest
and ill smile, smile, smile, and laugh
with hateful pleasantries and pleasant hate
a bright new day to exacerbate
the itch of joy and the soreness of pain
and once in a while
the heavy rain

and when my fingers slip
from the weight of it all
I'll keep smiling
I'll keep laughing
I know that there's an exit,

after all.

Moon
Five times have you greeted me
On this day

Though all around me changes
You remain constant

First
Set amongst the black of pre dawn
You illuminate my street
Crisp, round, dominant
The streetlamps weakly copy your splendour
With their modern white lights

Second
I Ieave my house
The skies have awakened
No longer the black
Now a pale blue
Mixed with oranges and mauve

You, moon begin a slow surrender
To this new backdrop
As if pastilles had sketched you
And you seem resigned
To melt into the day

Third
Higher you stand
And the palette pure blue
And there you are still
Present yet receding
More distant
Standing softly in the morning sky
As if to say

'Farewell my night
I will remain here forever
Watching the world
Hidden and waiting
For your return'

Fourth
You dissolve your perfect roundness
Miracle ball of rock
And disappear from view

Always there
Pulling my imagination
As you become
Nothing but a wisp among the clouds
Swallowed like death
By the day

I work
I do what I can
I return home
Exhausted

Fifth

Evening

You stand watching me
In the fresh darkness
Brighter than ever
Half way through your daily revolution

And the stars are with you now
Just as they always are
And I am another half revolution

Closer to
The end

I walked out last night,
barley-headed,
soul burnt down to a stub,
into a black chassis
fenced with star -
my hairy-eyed heart
carried on so.
But I am thankful for you,
my friend,
who so easily righted my keel
back into the tide
with a graceful turn.

Your words sift the holly,
brace the moon,
they are petrichor
in the lavender fields.
They come across the sea,
I eat them like pastilles.
I refresh the screen in hopes
that they have spiced the page.

The way I imagine you now,
in this moment,
you are running,
lifting the beach fleetly,
trailing a supping sun -
go, then, and know that the world
is so much better for you.

.dunno, i'm rarely hangover after a decent session, just today i found my favorite way to rehydrate... three glasses of water while munching on a rowntrees fruit pastilles lolly...

talking about lollies, i never succumbed
to twitter, but since opening a gab
account, i seem to get a *** workers'
following...
                         ah, the poets, the ******,
the mad and all that is ******...

- and whenever i'm in my cyber-punk
mood... i just put on some groove:
   logic bomb (computers & microprocessors
                       parasense remix)
             or some pantomiman...

to boot: hurt feelings? hate speech?!
whaaa?
         you have to be ******* me...
that's the biggest load of crockshit
i've ever heard...
                     listen... those are not hurt
feelings...
            someone just animated feelings
you didn't know you had before...
those are not hurt feelings,
they are new feelings...
              they're also overwhelming feelings,
but they're not hurt...
they're the feelings that, just prior,
you were unable to articulate by yourself,
because you couldn't reason with
yourself to unearth them from your
intrinsic and exclusive thinking patterns...
****, i have them...
   but they are bottled down where
they're supposed to be, concentrated...
the heart... and once they're there...
the heart becomes a rock,
  rather than a blabbering mouthpiece
of a ******* dummy who's sitting
on the lap of a ventriloquist.

like psychosis...
        when the body becomes animated
by a soul...
                     my favorite psychotic
episode was just a day prior to when
i was supposed to start work on the Olympic
village, London, prior to the 2012
Olympics...
                    for no reason apparent,
i traveled to Athens from Gatwick...
   took a shower at the airport,
bought new clothes from the fat face
shop, bought a bottle of absinthe with
Vincent's visage on the packaging...
  sat on the street drinking the absinthe,
turned milky green from the added
water, burned the sugar like some ******
***** in a spoon...
                 i remember laughing my socks
off, one arm over my eyes,
another arm extended forward,
apparently pointing at something
    (this was before Greece had the financial
crisis)...
   oh... and meeting up with some
strangers in a square's cafe...
             getting into their car and heading
for the strip-club...
             mm... the strip-club...
loads of fun...
          i don't know how other strip-clubs
operate, but in this one...
             i was actually allowed to touch
the strippers...
     well... had two either side...
giggles and what not... ran out of money...
was escorted by one of the gorillas
(bouncers) to the hotel adjacent
to take out more money...
                i was broke...
    i ****** myself... slyly walked out...
and... for reasons i can't even believe...
drunks... they have some magical
honing device or some ****...
some super-power...
             first time in Athens...
and i walked back to the hostel...
              photographic memory or what?
phoned my uncle the next day,
asking for a little bit of cash...
            then ****** off on coach back
to Poland to my grandparent's house...
Macedonia? beautiful, really hilly...
Serbia? flat as a pancake... loads of snow...
remember ******* in the snow thinking
about that Frank Zappa song...
   yellow snow...
                  Hungary... Slovakia...
   2 days or 2 days and a half on that ******
coach...
      middle of winter...
  scamp clothes... chattering like a slot machine...

so yeah... psychotic episodes
are great trips...
             even an L.S.D. trip can't match-up
to equal that abomination of nonsense
super spectacular...
   i was in Athens...
    and instead of going to see the Acropolis...
i went to a strip-club...
    but i mean: i did see the Acropolis...
from the street, way off in the distance...
      now, if i didn't utilize the energy
within a psychotic episode by fusing it
into writing... like most atypical psychotic
episodes...
    ah... the usual soppy story of
                             a knife and a rampage.